by Walter Marks
He was now near enough to see the guy clearly. He was skinny, around twenty, dressed in an oversized, black tee-shirt with KCUF printed on the front. His skin was sallow, he had “distant” gazing eyes. Heroin steals the soul, Jericho thought. His head was shaved, and across his forehead was tattooed SUR 13.
“So you’re Sureños,” Jericho said, recognizing the tat from his years combating gang violence in the Two Five. “What are you, some kinda Mexican Mafia errand boy?”
With his left hand, the punk flashed a quick three-fingered Eme or M gang sign. “Mess with me and you mess with them,” he said defiantly.
For a few moments it was a standoff, both trying to stare each other down.
Finally, the detective spoke up. “I’m counting to three.”
No reaction.
“Uno...dos...”
“...Wait, wait. Okay, okay...”
“Drop the knife on the floor.”
The gang-banger complied and the girl wrenched away from him. She ran around the counter and took shelter behind Jericho.
“Get down on your knees, asshole!” Jericho shouted.
“C’mon...”
“Down. And close your eyes.”
The guy obeyed, and knelt there trembling.
Jericho holstered his gun.
Then he got behind the punk, picked up the open switchblade and held it in front of his face.
“Open your eyes. What do you see?”
“...m-m-m my blade.”
Jericho took the knife and pressed it against the guy’s throat. “This is how that girl felt when you did this to her. How do you like it?”
The punk was speechless — paralyzed with fear.
“I was bluffing back there,” Jericho said. “You cut someone’s throat, they die within minutes. Too late for the emergency room.”
“...Please.”
“One swipe of my hand,” Jericho said menacingly. “And you’d feel a sharp pain, then blood spurting out of your throat, and then... nothing.”
“...I’m sorry.”
“It’d be easy,” Jericho said. “I’d just say you pulled a knife on the clerk, we got into a fight, and I won. And this nice girl here would back up my story, wouldn’t you honey?’
The girl nodded.
“...Please. I’ll do anything.”
Jericho pricked his neck skin with the point of the knife, and then took it away. “All right, cabrón. You can get up now.”
He got to his feet slowly. “Thank you...thank you...”
Jericho closed the knife and took out his gun and pressed the barrel against his head.
“What’s your name?”
“...Cristóbal.”
“Cristóbal. You were named after Christ?”
He nodded.
“Well you better start living up to your name.”
“Yes, sir.”
Jericho turned to the cashier. “Got your cell?”
“Yes.”
“Call 911 and tell ‘em to send a squad car.”
She looked fearful and shook her head.
“What’s the matter?” Jericho asked.
“I think you taught him a lesson,” she said. “I don’t think arresting him will…”
“Are you kidding?”
“Everybody deserves a second chance.”
“Second chance?” Jericho shouted. “This punk’ll have a rap sheet a mile long.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I’ll call them myself.” Jericho said. He put the switchblade in his jacket pocket and took out his phone.
“I won’t press charges,” she said firmly.
He looked at her tense face. Suddenly he understood. “You’re afraid his gang will retaliate, right?”
“I just don’t want any trouble.”
Jericho shook his head in frustration. He could’ve pushed the issue; as a cop witnessing a crime he could get Cristóbal arrested. But he had no right to jeopardize the girl — she was at the mercy of the code of El Barrio.
“Okay, punk. Take a hike.”
Jericho was furious. As the gang-banger turned to leave, Jericho grabbed him. “Before you go,” he said. “I want to give you a little reminder.”
Jericho, drew back his right hand and slapped the guy forehand and backhand three times, with all the force he could muster. Cristóbal’s junkie eyes glazed over.
“Now, get the hell outta here!”
When Cristóbal got to the door, Jericho whipped out his detective’s shield. “Hey, punk! Here’s my badge.” He knew the asshole could see its gold color, but not the EHTPD lettering. “You fuck up again, and I’ll bust your ass. You feel me?”
Cristobal nodded and left quickly.
Jericho took out the switchblade and examined it. It was labelled Boker, a brand he’d confiscated many times — popular in the ‘hood because its blade keeps its sharpness and its 4” length made it easy to conceal.
Jericho tapped the firing button briefly and the blade shot out. Then he pressed the button and held it down. The knife blade snapped shut.
He stuck it in the back pocket of his jeans.
The deli clerk’s name was Sandy. She tearfully thanked Jericho for saving her life. She said her father, the store’s owner, would be back later and she’d tell him what happened.
“The security camera’s been out of service for weeks now,” she said. “I hope this’ll make him get off his butt and have it fixed.”
“One would hope,” Jericho said.
He went to the rear of the store and retrieved his shopping basket.
At the front of the deli were bins containing assorted bagels. Fresh NY bagels were Jericho’s passion. Considering himself a connoisseur, he eschewed the whole wheat, cinnamon-raisin, sesame seed, the “everything” bagel. Only the “plain” suited his epicurean taste.
He bought two bagels for breakfast, but when he tried to pay for all his items, Sandy refused. After some back and forth, the detective gave in and thanked her.
On the way out he saw a stack of newspapers by the door and picked up the Daily News. As he dropped a dollar bill on top of the pile, he saw the headline. It read “HERO COP KILLS SELF.” There was an old picture of Mouse and some text: Detective had been awarded NYPD Medal of Valor. Suicide shocks fellow officers.
Medal of Valor, Jericho thought. He must’ve gotten it after I transferred to East Hampton. And he never even mentioned it. What a guy!
CHAPTER 9.
Back in his hotel room, Jericho lay down on his bed and read the Daily News editorial eulogizing his ex-partner:
IN MEMORIAM
Today we mourn the death by his own hand of Detective Sergeant Michael Aaron Davis. Davis was awarded the NYPD Medal of Valor (“for acts of outstanding personal bravery, intelligently performed in the line of duty, at imminent personal hazard to life under circumstances evincing a disregard of personal consequences.”)
What could cause such a brave man to end his life this way? We may never know.
Police suicide has become an all too common tragedy in our city. Clearly the pressure of enforcing the law, when so much violence permeates these urban streets, is breaking down the emotional stability and courageous will of our renowned police force.
Imagine the stress level when a cop never knows when a simple traffic stop or domestic disturbance will lead to violence. They’re not sure when they should draw their guns, whether to shoot or not, or maybe just walk away and not jeopardize their jobs.
This newspaper urges the Mayor and Chief of Police to recognize this problem and take immediate action, whatever is necessary — so that tragedies like Detective Davis’s suicide will not destroy the very fabric of our great city.
Jericho shook his head bitterly. And exactly what action should the Mayor and the Chief take? The problem is — we’re living in a world where bigotry, hatred, divisiveness, and brutality have become the new normal, where anger and terror fills every heart.
Rage begets fear, and fear be
gets rage.
So you have the rage of those disenfranchised folks who become victims when police officers go out of control. When cops shoot first and ask questions later. Or don’t ask questions at all. You have the fear people of color feel when they’re stopped for no apparent reason, and don’t dare protest for fear of retaliation.
There’s gotta be a solution. So much distrust on both sides. Who’s right? Who’s wrong? Who’s the good guy? Who’s the bad guy? It’s all summed up in that oxymoronic word — Criminal Justice.
He thought back to that punk Cristóbal, willing to cut the throat of an innocent young girl, to get the meager cash stored in the register. Because he felt entitled to it.
Then Jericho remembered his own assault on the gang-banger. He had to be taught a lesson.
Oh my God — my own anger drove me to violence against that kid.
I’m saying there’s gotta be a solution, while I’m actually part of the problem!
He changed the subject in his own mind, because he couldn’t deal with it. I’ve gotta call Rainbow. She doesn’t know I’m here.
Rainbow recognized his voice when she answered the phone. The warmth of her response lifted Jericho’s spirits. He told her how good it felt to talk to her.
“So, how’s everything going?” he asked. “Did you have a good day
“Yes,” Rainbow said. “I had one piercing and three tattoo customers, all walk-ins. I think my nice Yelp reviews are helping”
“That’s great.”
“Actually, my third tattoo client was a doozy,” she said. ”This busty woman flounces in, with orange hair, crop top, tiger-striped tights, and black studded spike-heel ankle boots. She informs me she’s post-op trans, fully recovered and ready to start her new life.
“I ask her what I can do for her, and she yanks down her tights and thong, exposing her belly. Then she says — you’re not gonna believe this — she says ‘I want a tattoo right here that says Vah-jay-jay and below that an arrow pointing down.’ I started laughing and she says ‘Listen, honey, you know how men are. They get lost and refuse to ask for directions!’”
Jericho laughed.
“So — how was your day?” Rainbow asked. “Anything interesting happen?”
“Well… uh… nothing as interesting as yours.”
“Anything new about Mouse’s death?”
“Not much yet,” Jericho said. “I’m in the city.”
“Really?”
“Sorry I didn’t tell you. I just… there’s too much I don’t understand. I have to be here to get some answers.”
“How long will you be away?”
“Don’t really know.”
“Where are you staying?”
“...I’m moving around. Best to reach me on my cell.”
He heard her sigh. ““My mom once told me — don’t ever get involved with a policeman.”
“Why would she say that?”
“At the time, she was doing a stretch in Bedford Hills Correctional for selling weed to an undercover cop.”
At first Jericho thought she was kidding. Then he realized she wasn’t. “We... we really don’t know that much about each other, do we?” he said.
“No. But it’ll be fun finding out.”
“I look forward to it.”
There was a pause. He could hear her stifle a yawn. “Well... I’m about ready for bed.”
“Likewise.”
“I wish I could tuck you in.”
There was a sex joke to be made, but Jericho opted for “...So do I.”
There was a pause.
“Well, goodnight,” she said.
“Goodnight.”
“I miss you.”
“Miss you, too.”
CHAPTER 10.
When he got up in the morning, Jericho realized he hadn’t iced his groceries in the trash basket. So, for breakfast he’d have to settle for room-temperature OJ and hot tap-water instant coffee.
But worst of all, he’d forgotten to buy cream cheese for his bagels, and he didn’t have a knife to cut them. So he ended up with peanut butter on his uncut bagel, spread with the handle of his toothbrush. Yuck!
His phone rang and it was Danny Santos. He’d gotten into Mouse’s locker but there was no cell phone. He did, however, find something interesting in Mouse’s raincoat pocket. It was a little hard to describe, but he could take a break and bring it over in person.
Jericho said he’d seen a McDonalds at 90th and First, and that he’d meet him there in half an hour.
“Check this out,” Danny said, when he sat down with Jericho. From his pocket he pulled out a small, blue cardboard square with a hole in it.
Jericho looked at it. The printing read:
해피 데이 매니큐어 세
“Looks like Korean writing,” Jericho said.
“What do you think it means?”
“No idea. But I can probably get it translated. I know a Korean deli.”
“Cool,” Danny said. “Well, I better be gettin’ back to work.”
“Before you go,” Jericho said. “There’s a couple things I want to ask you.”
“Shoot.”
“Is there anybody in the Two Five named Rosie?”
“Rosie?” Danny thought for a second. “You mean like, some chick?”
“Possibly.”
“Doesn’t ring a bell.”
“Anybody with a last name, like say, Rosenberg, Melrose, someone with Rosie for a nickname?”
“...Nope.”
“Okay,” Jericho said. “One other thing; were you around when Mouse was awarded the Medal of Valor?”
“Sure,” Danny said. “Everybody at the station house was pumped about it.”
“Do you know what Mouse did to get the medal?”
“You didn’t hear?”
“No,” Jericho said. “We didn’t talk that often. And Mouse, he didn’t like to toot his own horn.”
Danny nodded. “Well,“ he said. “The way I heard it —some fruit-loopy homeless guy was actin’ real erratic on the L train platform. Suddenly, whoopsie — he fell down onto the tracks. The platform was crowded, but nobody did a damn thing. Mouse, he saw what happened and jumped down on the tracks to help the guy. A train started bearin’ down on him, and everybody was yellin’ at Mouse to get the hell outta there. But Mouse, he yanked the guy up on his feet, shoved him back up on the platform, and then just barely dove outta the way before the train came.
Mouse first refused to accept the medal, but he finally gave in, as long as he didn’t have to go through no public ceremony.”
“That sure sounds like Mouse.”
“Yeah,” Danny said. “All guts. No glory.”
Jericho walked over to the Korean deli and saw Sandy at the cash register.
“Daddy,” she called out. “The cop who saved my life is here!”
Her father emerged from an aisle where he was stocking the shelves. He hurried towards Jericho, bowing in gratitude.
“Thanks to you... thanks to you so much sir,” he said, in the best English he could manage. “You save Sandy. She most precious to me. Mommy passed. Sandy my…naega gajigo-issneun yuil-han ai.”
“Only child,” Sandy said, translating.
“I’m Jericho,” the detective said.
“I Jae-sung, but in USA call me Jay.”
“Nice to meet you, Jay,” Jericho said. “I wonder if you could do me a favor.”
“Any favor you want.”
Jericho handed Jay the small piece of cardboard Danny had found in Mouse’s coat pocket. “Is this Korean writing?”
“Yes, Korean writing.”
“What does it say?”
“Ha-eng-bog-han ha-lu mae-nik-yueo se,” he read out loud. “Happy day...uh...um...”
Sandy looked over his shoulder and translated. “Happy Day Nail Spa. Three,” she said. “This looks like a coat check ticket.”
Nail spa. Jericho immediately thought of Mouse’s manicured fingernails.
&n
bsp; “This Happy Day place,” Jericho said. “Do you know it?”
“I don’t,” Sandy said. “But I don’t go to those...”
“I dunno neither,” Jay cut in. “Plenty mae-nik-yueo in city. But my advice...no go there. Most run by Jo-Pok Khang-pae.”
“Korean gangsters,” Sandy explained. “Thugs from the Korean Mafia. They’re horrible.”
“Can you tell me more about them?”
“Much danger to talk about Jo-Pock,” Jay said. “Best to keep zip on lip.”
Sandy ignored her father. “Most of the salon workers are illegals — girls from Asia or Central America, exploited by their bosses…”
“Tsun-zee-eah!” Jay shouted at his daughter.
She stopped talking.
“Before I go,” Jericho said to the father. “You could do me one favor.”
“Anything for you.”
“No. It’s for you,” Jericho said. “Get your security camera fixed.”
Jay nodded. “Sandy already yell at me. I called fixers this morning.”
Jericho smiled, thanked them profusely and left.
He headed back to his hotel, trying to figure out how to find Happy Day Nail Spa.
CHAPTER 11.
Finding the salon was fairly easy. Jericho opened his laptop, went online and googled “Happy Day Nail Spa New York City” and up popped the listings. He had to scroll through ads of numerous places like “Sunny Kim Nail Salon”, “Lovely J Nails”, “Angel Tips Manicure”, till he finally came to “Happy Day Nail Spa.” It was located at First Avenue and Tito Puente Way (110th St.), an easy walk from his hotel.
The place was on the ground floor of a row of tenements, most of which were boarded up except for a corner eatery called “Café Del Barrio.” As he passed it, Jericho could hear recorded salsa music coming from inside.
Jericho entered the manicure salon and his eye was drawn to a garish overhead light fixture, which looked like a mini version of the “Phantom of the Opera” chandelier.
The whole place was painted lavender and one wall featured a framed enlarged photo of Reese Witherspoon having her nails done in the movie “Legally Blonde.”
