“The heel’s the best part anyway, you ask me.”
Mai served Darnell a mixture of pineapple and orange juice. He thanked her and had a long sip.
“How long have you been cooking?” said Karras.
“I started back when I was doin’ this little stretch at Lorton. I guess Nick’s already told you about that. I got a job in the kitchen as a dishwasher. This guy that had been cooking for years there kind of took me under his wing.”
“You’re good at it.”
“Yeah, I can put a meal together, I guess. Thing is, Phil doesn’t let me stretch out too much here. Wants to keep this a meat-and-potatoes, middle-of-the-road, bar-food kind of place. I’d like to do a whole lot more.”
Karras pushed his empty plate to the side. “Listen, Darnell…”
“You don’t have to say nothin’, man. You’re doin’ a good job. Things have been running smoother since you got here, and I’m happy about that. I just wasn’t suited for that position, that’s all.”
“You were trying to do too much, is what it was. I can’t take too much credit, either. I’ve had a lot of help. James and Maria have been great.”
“Yes, those two sure can do it. ’Specially Maria. She can sense when that food’s coming off the grill, like she’s seein’ behind her back.”
Karras drummed his fingers on the bar. “Let me ask you something about Maria.”
“Go ahead.”
“I’ve noticed marks on her face -”
“Her husband. He drinks at night and sometimes he drinks too much. When he does, he beats her.”
“Can’t we do anything?”
“Nick asked her if she wanted us to report the guy. She said no. I think she’s afraid. Afraid for herself but mainly for that beautiful girl of hers. So there it is. Everybody’s got their own little world of problems they got to deal with, man. We’re all out here just doin’ the best we can.”
Darnell swallowed the rest of his juice and got up off the stool.
“Thanks, Darnell.”
“Let me get on out of here and back to those dishes.”
Darnell headed toward the kitchen.
“What’s up, Darnell?” said the cop.
“Officer Boyle.” Darnell didn’t stop or turn his head.
When Darnell had entered the kitchen, the cop leaned over, extended his hand, and said, “Dan Boyle.”
“Dimitri Karras.”
They shook hands.
“Yeah, Nick told me your name. I said to him, Now we got two Greeks in this joint.”
“Uh-huh.”
Karras hoped that would end the conversation. There were certain kinds of drinkers who had a sleepy kind of cruelty in their eyes. Boyle had that look – and he was a detective in the bad bargain. Along with everything else, Karras had lost his faith in cops.
Boyle said, “You know, when I asked Nick who the new guy was and he told me your name, it rang a bell. It wasn’t just that your name had been in the papers a few times these last couple of years.”
“Yeah?” So this Boyle character knew about the murder of his son.
“Yeah, it was something else.”
“What was it?” asked Karras tiredly. “You figure it out?”
“Well, it turns out it was your last name I was picking up on. I have this uncle, Jimmy Boyle, was a beat cop in this town and then a homicide detective later on. I’m going back to the forties, understand? Anyway, I can remember, even as a kid, my uncle talking about this friend of his he grew up with, back when the poor immigrants lived in Chinatown. I don’t know the story, but my uncle claims this guy had something to do with him getting his gold shield. Pete Karras was his name. He died before I was born, so I never met him or anything like that. But around my uncle it was always Pete Karras this and Pete Karras that.”
“Pete Karras was my father.”
“Christ,” said Boyle, “wait till I tell my uncle.”
“He’s alive, huh?”
“Yeah, he’s alive. Boy, I had a feeling, too.”
Boyle finished his shot with a quick toss. Karras noticed the butt of Boyle’s revolver beneath his jacket as he threw his head back to drain his beer. Boyle took a last drag off his smoke, crushed the cherry in the ashtray, stood up, and left a heap of ones on the bar.
Boyle went over to Karras and squeezed his shoulder. He leaned in close. Karras could smell the whiskey and nicotine on his breath.
“Nice meeting you,” said Boyle. “My sympathy for the loss of your son.”
Karras nodded but said nothing. Boyle left the bar.
FOURTEEN
Nick Stefanos parked his Dodge between the customized Lexus and a black Maxima in the Kennedy Street lot beside Hunan Delite, where Jerry Sun, the partial witness in the Donnel Lawton case, was employed.
Today Stefanos wore his version of a uniform: blue Dickies pants, a blue shirt, and a charcoal waistcoat. He carried a cell phone that he had rigged to an oversize case.
The blue shirt and pants, the phone that looked like a pack set – he wasn’t impersonating a cop, exactly. But he looked enough like the species to give pause to the people he was hoping to talk to on the street.
Stefanos pushed open the door of Hunan Delite. Lunch was over, and there was only one customer, an obese woman in tights and a sweatshirt, in the lobby. She leaned her back on a red eat-in counter and avoided eye contact with Stefanos.
The place smelled of fried food and grease. A speaker mounted in the lobby was set on PGC. Callers to the station were giving their shout-outs to friends, family, and lovers.
Stefanos went to the lazy Susan contraption set in the Plexiglas wall. An old Asian woman came forward and stood before him, spoke through several teardrop cutouts in the glass.
“What you have?” she asked.
Stefanos opened his billfold. Inside was his investigator’s license, a photo ID that simply said “Investigator,” white letters against a red background, barred across the top. He placed the open billfold flat against the glass and spoke into the cutout teardrops.
“I want to speak to Jerry Sun. Could you get him, please?”
The woman left without a word. Stefanos heard a foreign tongue in a raised voice. He waited. A clean-cut young man in a black turtleneck came to the glass. It looked like the same young man Stefanos had seen the night he had driven by.
“Yes?”
“Jerry Sun?”
“That’s right.”
“I’m an investigator working on the Donnel Lawton case.”
“I’ve already talked to the detectives, two times.”
“I have a few more questions, if you don’t mind.”
Jerry Sun looked over his shoulder, then back at Stefanos. “Go around the store and meet me behind.”
“See you there.”
The obese woman studied Stefanos as he walked out the door. Jerry Sun stood against the brick wall beside the rear entrance to the kitchen. As Stefanos approached, he noticed the tail of a rat disappear beneath a nearby Dumpster.
“Nick Stefanos.”
Stefanos offered his hand. Sun took it tentatively.
“Make it, quick, okay? I’ve got to get back inside.”
“You run this place?”
“With my mother.”
A couple of young men passed by on the sidewalk. One of them yelled, “Hey, Jerry-San, whassup?” His friend laughed.
Jerry smiled tightly and half-waved back.
Stefanos said, “You get that much?”
“Sure, all the time. Customers ordering in a Chinese accent. People who make fun of my mother.”
“But you stay.”
Sun shrugged. “I’m the oldest son of six children. It was my responsibility to stay. This place has put three of my siblings through college.”
“Not you?”
“The birth order decided my fate. It was just an accident. But I accept it.” Sun lost his frown. “Don’t get me wrong; it’s not so bad. There are people who mock us, but there are plenty of nice people down here. I grew up in Montgomery County. But in some ways I’ve grown up with a lot of these neighborhood people, too.”
“Known many who’ve died?”
“Yes.”
“Donnel Lawton?”