Year of the Dragon

by Robert Daley

  For two hours the interrogation continued, but both subjects remained obdurate. It was like bombarding boulders with eggs. It was like beating on drums in an attempt to weaken the fabric of the drum. Although one used words instead of drumsticks, the decibel level was the same. But these drums seemed truly inanimate, impervious to noise, impervious to the passage of time. Whereas the effort expended by the drummers was prodigious. The useless, monotonous, echoing reverberation wore out the drummers.

  Again Kelly and Powers consulted in the hallway.

  “What do you think, Captain?”

  “Let’s try the Chinese guys,” said Powers. He had a screaming headache, brought on by his own screaming voice, which he was losing. He was already hoarse, and getting hoarser.

  They talked in whispers, because across the squad room Nikki Han sat on the floor of the cage watching them with small ferret eyes. Since the arrests he had been kept apart from Go Low, who waited his turn in still another empty office guarded by Luang.

  “Go Low is our best chance,” whispered Powers.

  Kelly walked over to the cage. Han only stared at him.

  “You pulled the trigger on one of the brothers,” Kelly snarled. “We got a witness. We got you for extortion, for possession of weapons today, and for murder. Ironclad evidence. You want a break, Nikki, you give us Koy. We know he was at the warehouse the night you killed that guy. We got a witness to that too. You want a break, you call me.”

  That would give Han something to think about – maybe - while Powers and Kelly went into the office and worked over Go Low.

  Kelly slammed the office door. Go Low, after hours of immobility, jumped to his feet. “Report just came back from the lab,” said Kelly, a lie. No report was expected before tomorrow. “That Browning matches the bullet out of the Hsu boy’s skull.” Kelly was chortling, rubbing his hands. He’s a fine actor, thought Powers.

  Kelly said, “We got you for possession of guns, kiddo. And now we got you as an accessory to murder also. You want a break, you tell us about the narcotics shipment that’s coming in. You give us Koy.”

  The Chinese youth stared at Kelly.

  Kelly said, “Nikki Han pulled the trigger, but you were there. We got it all on tape. Ironclad evidence. You go away for life. We also know that Koy was there. Koy gave the orders. You agree to give us Koy, you get a break. You give something, you get something.”

  Low was a dapper youth. His movements were lithe like a cat’s. There was a feline expression to his face as well.

  The questioning turned vicious.

  “You’re a pretty sharp dresser, Low.” Kelly said. “Think a lot of your appearance, don’t you? Nice fingernails, I see. I wonder how you’ll like it in the slammer. You’ve never done any time, have you? You little Chinese guys are very popular in the slammer. They turn you into girls right away. Have you ever been fucked up the ass, Low? Tonight on Riker’s Island you can try it out. They’ll be glad to see you on Riker’s. At the end of an hour, two hours, your asshole won’t be virgin no more, Low.”

  They were interrupted by Casagrande’s voice through the wall. “So take me to court,” he shouted.

  Powers said, “Or we could hold you here. Think about it, Low.”

  As the afternoon passed, Casagrande kept demanding to be booked and arraigned. He seemed to become more and more agitated, and Powers noted this.

  “I got my rights,” Casagrande shouted from next door.” Take me to court and I’ll post bail,” Casagrande shouted.

  His lawyer had charged into the station house and was making the same demands downstairs. He made them over and over again. Powers, locked in the office with Low, could hear both voices through the walls. After delaying as long as he could, he at last ordered Marco and Casagrande booked and taken to arraignment court. But he drew the arresting detectives aside and instructed them, if Casagrande should make bail, to follow him away from the courthouse.

  “I want to know where he goes,” said Powers, and he watched the two handcuffed prisoners, the two detectives and the lawyer leave the station house. Then he sighed and went back upstairs to resume questioning Go Low.

  FROM POWERS’ point of view, the most important of his four prisoners, though he did not know it, was Casagrande. Since the man had had no previous police record, his associates had assumed, wrongly, that no police agency was interested in him. He had therefore been assigned the job of getting the narcotics off the Rotterdam - which would sail that evening.

  Arraignment court was crowded, and two more hours passed before the case was called. The judge ordered Marco remanded, and set ten thousand dollars bail on Casagrande. A bondsman, already on hand, posted it at once and Casagrande rushed out onto the street where he hailed a taxi and jumped into it. The two detectives were close behind him. The Rotterdam sailed at 6 P.M., and it was nearly that now.

  Ownership of the narcotics aboard the Rotterdam had passed to the Italians the night before. Money had changed hands, a down payment that had already reached Koy. The Hakka stoker had been notified. Casagrande had been equipped with the recognition signal. He was prepared to put Marco’s plan into operation. The narcotics were to be brought off in the final load of garbage before the ship sailed. Two longshoremen had been alerted, but for reasons of security had been given no details. The details were the job of Casagrande, now leaning tensely forward in his cab, peering under the disused West Side Highway, toward the pier. Where there should have been a ship he could see open water. He could see clear across to New Jersey. The Rotterdam was half a mile out and a mile downstream - Casagrande did not care how far. He could not see it. It was gone. He was too late. He told the driver not to stop, to turn north on West Street and to keep going. He got out on Fifty-seventh Street and walked idly along, looking in the windows in the gathering twilight. The detectives parked. One got out and tailed him on foot from a discreet distance.

  On board the Rotterdam eleven hundred cruise passengers sat down to a gala champagne dinner. In the engine room the stoker worked stripped to the waist, handkerchief tied around his neck, the sweat rolling down his back anyway. He was worried about the one-hundred-dollar courier fee he had not been paid, and about the plastic pouches still stashed under the floor plates in the bilge.

  OUTSIDE THE station house window the afternoon faded into dusk.

  Glickman phoned. “The ship has sailed, Captain. We made a good try, what can I tell you? Either they got the stuff off, or it was never on there.”

  “Maybe it’s still on there,” said Powers.

  Glickman laughed. “You don’t give up easily, do you?” But the laugh ended. “I guess this hunch of yours cost me about a hundred hours in overtime. That’s a lot when you come up empty. I don’t begrudge it to you. Given the facts, it was the logical ship. I thought it was worth a try, or I wouldn’t have ordered it. But I hope you don’t think we’re going to search that ship again when it comes back.”

  “No, of course not,” said Powers. “Listen, I really appreciate all you’ve done. Thank you very much. I mean it. I just wish I’d been right.”

  “Oh hell,” said Glickman, embarrassed. “Maybe you were. Who knows?”

  There was a long silence.

  “One other thing,” said Glickman. “The PC asked me to call him once the ship sailed. I’m afraid I’m going to have to do that.”

  “Sure,” said Powers. “I understand. Don’t think twice about it. And again - thanks for the good try.”

  He hung up and turned away from the phone.

  “You look exhausted, Captain,” said Kelly.

  Powers had stepped out into the squad room to take the call. He looked around at the rows of empty desks. It looked like a newspaper office. At two of them squad detectives spoke into telephones. There were only three other persons present, Nikki Han pretending to be asleep on the floor of the cage, and a uniformed cop fingerprinting his prisoner at the fingerprint desk. The prisoner appeared to be an addict. The cop was working hard, carefully rolling ea
ch lax, uncoordinated finger on to the pad.

  “I’m exhausted, all right,” said Powers, “aren’t you?”

  Kelly laughed. “Relax, Captain. You can’t expect to crack these pricks wide open the first night. It’s a long process. We keep hammering on them the next six months, and maybe finally one of them cracks and gives up the others. Shall we go back to Go Low?”

  Powers said, “I don’t have six months.”

  The immigration officer, Baumgartner, having come up the stairs, walked out into the squad room. “Can I see you a minute, Captain?”

  Powers went over to him.

  “I stopped her on the street earlier today,” said Baumgartner in a low voice. “We have that right by law. I asked to see her green card. From her attitude, I’d say she doesn’t know it’s phony. It’s a very good job. I can pick her up and hold her for deportation. You tell me what you want me to do.”

  “How soon can you get a warrant, or whatever you guys use?”

  “I took care of that already.” said Baumgartner. From his breast pocket he withdrew the document and waved it at Powers. “But we have to make the arrest. You cops don’t have jurisdiction in immigration matters.”

  “Just let me have the warrant,” said Powers reaching for it. “Just let me have that paper in my hands for an hour.”

  Baumgartner handed it over. “What have you got in mind?”

  “An idea that might work.” said Powers. “I don’t know. It’s my only chance.” Kelly was right. None of the prisoners would crack tonight, and he could wait no longer. He would have to move in the only other direction open to him. And he peered around for Luang. He found him in one of the offices, feet up on the desk, half asleep.

  “Reach out for Koy,” said Powers. “Phone the new apartment first. If it’s an unlisted number, call telephone company security and get it.”

  Luang gave a grin. “It is unlisted, Captain, and I got it already.”

  Luang reached for the phone and dialed the number. While it rang Powers began to pace the room. But he could not keep his eyes off Luang, off the phone itself. He heard Luang say: “Captain Powers calling from the Fifth Precinct. One moment, please.”

  Taking the receiver, Powers held his hand over the mouthpiece, and took a deep breath. When he began to speak, he made his voice sound carefree, jovial.

  “Hello there, Mr. Koy. How are you? How was Hong Kong? Did you have a good trip?”

  No answer came to any of these questions, nor had Powers waited for one. So far Koy had said nothing except hello.

  “Yes,” continued Powers, “I was away myself for a while. Yes, I went to Hong Kong too. I’m surprised we didn’t run into each other there.”

  There was no answer from Koy, although Powers believed he could hear him breathing. Did this betray shock, fear, panic? It was ridiculous to imagine it betrayed anything except that the man was alive and had to breathe.

  “Listen, Mr. Koy, I’ve got to see you right away. I have some information you might be interested in hearing.”

  “My office sometime tomorrow,” Koy suggested after a moment.

  Powers, who could detect no urgency in his voice, realized Koy was playing a game with him. The urgency, if any, would have to be displayed by himself, and then Koy would know more than he knew right now.

  “No, your office wouldn’t be a good place,” said Powers, “and the precinct wouldn’t be a good place either.”

  There was a clock on the wall across the squad room, and he watched the second hand sweep around twice. It became the heaviest silence he had ever endured.

  Koy said, “Where do you suggest, then?”

  “We need privacy,” said Powers. He felt he had won a great victory, but was not sure why. He had forced Koy to speak, to request, in effect, that the meeting take place. And this time Powers believed he had heard a barely perceptible choke in Koy’s voice. The man was not made of stone after all, and was worried.

  “You and I ought to be able to settle this between us, if you get my meaning,” said Powers. “We ought to be able to reach an accommodation, don’t you think? The way this thing is going brings no profit to anyone, don’t you agree?”

  Koy said nothing.

  Powers pursued him. “Let me give you an address. It’s the perfect place to conduct our business without anybody bothering us. Let me suggest you meet me there in thirty minutes. Got a pencil?”

  AT THE other end of the connection Koy took down the address given him and recognized it. Then he hung up the phone. Obviously shaken, he stared across at Orchid.

  “You said the phone was put in only this morning,” he remarked in Hakka. “You said the number was unlisted? You’re certain?”

  Orchid said: “Yes, I’m certain. What’s the matter? All of a sudden you look awful.”

  Koy’s attaché case lay on the table beside the phone. He snapped it open. Inside were stacks of bank notes with bands around them, and a .38-caliber short-barreled revolver for which he had a permit. The contents of the case renewed his confidence, and he snapped it shut.

  “I’ve got to go out for a short time,” he said. Without even glancing at his perplexed wife, he grabbed up the attaché case and left the apartment.

  POWERS STOOD stripped to the waist, his belt buckle undone, his trousers hanging at half-mast. He held the transmitter and its batteries against his abdomen - a package about the size of a Zippo lighter - his forefinger poking it in, while Kelly wound surgical tape around it, and around his body. The Zippo was being embedded in flesh that hadn’t been there, Powers reflected, when he was a young cop. Kelly was being careful, patting the tape smooth, so that no bulge showed. Koy would not make him on sight as wearing a wire. Kelly was unconcerned about peeling the tape off later. That was Powers’ worry. It was going to hurt, Powers knew.

  He held the antenna wires to his collarbone like suspenders and Kelly taped them down. He lifted the microphone to his sternum and Kelly taped it in place. A button about the size of a female nipple at a spot where no nipple, male or female, ever grew. Modern technology could not change the construction of the human body, nor the nature of evil, and perhaps its principal effect was always psychological. Its effect was perhaps less significant than men supposed. And what would be the effect of this gear tonight?

  When finished, Kelly stepped back to admire his handiwork. Powers pulled his T-shirt on, buttoned his uniform shirt up the front, then knotted and drew up his tie.

  “Pretty good, if I do say so myself,” said Kelly, circling him. “Nothing shows.”

  “Good,” said Powers.

  Kelly looked at his watch. “We’d better hurry.”

  “Wait for me outside, Kelly.”

  Kelly said, “You told him half an hour, and it’s past that now.”

  “He’ll be there early, and he’ll wait. The longer he waits, the more nervous he’ll get. Please close the door on the way out.”

  As the door shut behind Kelly, Powers sat down at his desk, where he found an envelope and on it wrote his wife’s name. Then he took a sheet of paper, and studied it. In a moment his pen began to move.

  I am about to meet Koy, he began. I have taken every precaution. I’m not trying to get killed, but it could happen. If so, you should know the following.

  He paused. He had been in many dangerous situations in twenty-three years. Why did tonight feel so much more dangerous than all the others? But he knew the answer. Because I’m going to make it more dangerous, he told himself. I’m going to force Koy into a corner from which there is no way out. I’m going to force him to kill himself or to kill me. Either way, the case ends tonight.

  What does one write at such a time to a beloved wife of so many years?

  The insurance policies are in the safe deposit box, he wrote. Its key is in the top drawer of my dresser. We have two savings accounts, whose passbooks are in the same drawer. Taped to the underside of the drawer is $100 in cash, an emergency fund. It has been there many years. Also in the safe deposit bo
x are the wills we made right after Phil was born, our marriage certificate and other papers you may need.

  He stopped writing and brooded. Now he had to be personal, and that was harder. What should he write?

  His glance was caught by the television set fixed to the wall beside the door to his office. When he got up and switched it on, he saw that he had come in, as expected, at the tail end of Carol’s Seven O’clock News.

  This afternoon, according to one of the cops he had talked to, she had managed to photograph Koy entering and leaving his funeral parlor and getting into and out of his car. On the sidewalk she had thrust her microphone into his face and fired off questions that he had not answered. Useful footage, Powers supposed, to go with the film she had shot in Hong Kong. None of which would alter in any way his confrontation with Koy a few minutes from now.

  On the screen Carol was talking about strikes in Poland, and she was wearing a summer print dress he had not seen before. He studied her face and listened to her voice, the timbre rather than the words - what did he care about strikes in Poland? But he found it impossible to believe in the intimacy that had once existed between them, the various forms of sustenance they had shared: the intimate dinners, the hours glued together in the dark.

  He wished her luck putting her piece together. He wished her luck with her entire life. “Goodbye, Carol,” he murmured, and realized he was saying goodbye not so much to a memory, as to an ideal, and ideals had no more reality than that image on the screen up there. Saying goodbye to images on TV screens was not even hard to do, and he switched the set off.