Peace being the main objective in your ministry among these gangs?
Of course. I don’t see—
Would you agree, Father, without delving into the requisite sociological causes, that the main activity of these gangs, indeed, their very reason for being, is criminal—
Now, wait a minute, Mr. Todd. These are youths from a blighted landscape. They turn to the gang life as a matter of survival, a system for living where there is no other system.
But let’s be clear and honest here, Father Todorov. That system is comprised of thievery, drug dealing, arms dealing, extortion, and the general, wholesale spreading of terror—
You’re making very provocative remarks about an extremely complicated problem—
There was nothing complicated about the firebombing of the New Ponce Bodega last week—
That incident has not been proven to be gang-related, Mr. Todd.
I think what confuses most people, Father, is your insistence on devoting your time and effort to an element with very little respect for law and life—
We have to start somewhere. As Christ said, it’s the sick man who needs the doctor. These young people have to be taught other skills—
Blame everything on ignorance, yes? Tell me, Father, what about these radio jammers who’ve begun to prey on us? Clearly these aren’t ignorant savages.
I didn’t say … I’m here to talk about the gang problem. I don’t know anything about these jammers.
Just what you read in the papers, I’m sure.
I don’t see—
I’m curious, when you venture down to Bangkok town, do you wear the collar, Father?
Not always, no. The idea is to first establish a rapport. And I’ve found if I dress in street clothes, it’s a sign … I find it’s the first step toward intimacy. It helps to remove the threat of my a priori role as an authority figure.
You do acknowledge, however, that you are, in fact, an authority figure. Correct, Father?
I’m perceived this way. The image of the adult, white, male priest. The force of the historical image is a powerful, stubborn symbol to overcome. I—
Do these gang members ever confess their crimes to you, Father?
Well, first, Ray, as you well know, we confess sins, not crimes. And secondly, most of the gangs are not Catholic.
Most?
Well, the Granada Street Popes are. And the new one out of Ireland — the Castlebar Road Boys.
And these two, they claim to be members of the Church?
What I mean is, they were raised in the tradition. Their native cultures are—
Could you briefly distinguish between crime and sin for me, Father?
Excuse me?
Crime versus sin. Please.
[Pause] Well, I mean, it appears obvious to me. A crime is a violation of a man-made law—
And a sin—
Would be an affront to, a disruption of, one’s individual conscience. I don’t see—
Now, last month there, when you and your little coalition drove down Route 63 to the industrial park and poured human blood all over the lobby of the Gibson Tech corporate office. Would that there be a sin or a crime?
I don’t see how this concerns the gang issue. I thought we were here to discuss—
And so we are. Which brings me to my question, did one of those street scum gangboys supply you people with the blood? “Lucky day, Father T. Got a big red barrel full of B negative from a little grandmother we just gutted.”
[Yelling] Mr. Todd, for God’s sake—
[Yelling] And you’ve got a hell of a nerve invoking the name of God, you Marxist insult to Rome—
[noise of microphone coming loose]
… is ridiculous … despicable …
[Yelling] Keep walking, you liberal humanist fraud. Your days are numbered, you—
Ray is cut off, but not by a jammer. The WQSG theme music comes up and a prerecorded promo blurbs the station’s virtues and then segues into an ad for a medical malpractice attorney.
Ronnie and Flynn are on the tub floor, gulping air and water spray, hearts pumping, leg muscles trembling. After a second, Ronnie opens her eyes and looks at Flynn. A smile breaks out on his face. And then, at the same time, they both begin laughing.
“I guess Raymond gets to us both,” Ronnie says over the blast of the water.
24
Loke steps through his office door to find Detective Hannah Shaw seated behind his desk, her booted heels resting on his blotter, a thick leather-bound book open in her lap.
Though he’s affronted by her display, Loke nods as if he’s impressed, maybe a little amused, by the audacity, the sheer in-your-face disrespect. But Hannah’s not even looking up to see his grin and his nod. She’s running a finger along something of particular interest in the book. As she reads, she shifts in her seat, digs a hand into a pocket of her leather jacket, and lackadaisically pulls out a badge pinned in a custom leather wallet. She waves the badge around over her head like it was a flag or some kind of college pennant.
Finally she finishes reading, looks up, points to a chair, and in a put-on enthused voice says, “Loke, you little devil, why don’t you have a seat?”
Loke stands still for a second trying to decide which way to play it, then remembers the lecture he’s just had to endure at Uncle Chak’s place. He slides into a chair before the teak desk and says, “You must be Detective Shaw. I am so honored. We finally get a chance to meet.”
Hannah repockets her badge and says, “We’ll both remember the day for years to come.”
Loke widens his eyes and says, “No doubt,” in some weird accent like William Buckley gone Asian.
Hannah lifts the book she’s been reading from her lap and reshelves it in the case behind Loke’s desk. “Quite a page turner there,” she says. “Jesus, those Khmer Rouge are imaginative bastards. I never would have guessed there were so many uses for trash bags.”
“You use what you have,” Loke says, his hands tossed out to the side like a bored magician.
“And pragmatic,” Hannah says. “You can suffocate the victim and dispose of the remains. Such clever little pricks.”
Loke gives a smile that he thinks is modest, then says, “I must be one of the last players in Bangkok Park to meet Hannah Shaw.”
Hannah comes forward to the desk and brings her back rigid. “Well, I don’t usually get down to the errand-boy level—”
Loke cuts her off, still good-natured, and says, “‘Warlord,’ if you don’t mind. I’m such a stickler when it comes to language.”
Hannah nods and squints. “Whatever. You guys are all a little anal for me. For the record, though, you don’t use my first name. I’m Detective Shaw to you, son. That’s the first rule and it’s a goddamned important one.”
“Of course, Detective. I didn’t mean to be rude—”
“I’m sure you didn’t,” Hannah says. “Just like you didn’t mean to fry that hotshot priest down St. Brendan’s.”
Loke immediately starts shaking his head. He stands up and walks to the desk, plants his hands on the teak, and looks down at Hannah. “The Hyenas had nothing to do with that. You can talk to my uncle—”
Hannah stands up and matches his heat. “Your Uncle Chak doesn’t cut any shit with me, you little jarhead bastard. Who the fuck do you think you’re talking to? Uncle Chak is a loose wing nut with too few brains and too small balls. No Asian in this town has ever crossed Doc Cheng and lived out the year, you stupid bastard. Not even the Japanese. There’s a system down here that works and it pisses me off when some dick-head slope who stepped off the boat Wednesday and moved some smack on Friday suddenly thinks he can fuck with the whole machine.”