“Leave?” Jack asked, casting an unhappy look at Alex.
“Jack,” she said, “it’s for your own good. A procedural thing.” She paused before adding “There’s probably going to be a psych evaluation also. You’ll be out for a while.”
“Leave,” Jack repeated softly to himself, his mind drifting. “It’s Christmas Day,” he suddenly remembered, looking at Alex, “and you’re here.”
“Well, Chloe’s at my parents, until dinner. I was only going to SoHo, to shop a little. No biggie. Just wanted to make sure you were okay.” She patted his hand.
There was a quiet moment, then the doctor said, “The nurse will be in shortly. You need to rest. And I’ll look in on you in the afternoon.”
“Thanks, Doc,” Jack said, his mind still processing information. Then the phone rang somewhere close, his ring tone. Alex took his cell phone out of a closet in the side of the room. He caught a glimpse of his clothes inside as she handed it to him. He flipped the phone open, saw a number he didn’t recognize, then heard P.O. Wong’s tired voice.
“We found the body,” he said.
God’s General Gourd
She followed the wide ruts of truck tire tracks in the snow, turning the corner off Bayard.
In the Mulberry Street spirit shop, Bo checked the time, saw she still had an hour before her shift at the New Canton. She had wanted to pick up a tea, and a bao, a bun, along the way.
The shop smelled of jasmine and incense. There were bamboo umbrellas, ceramic gods and goddesses, lacquered dragons and Buddhas. She saw beaded bracelets, necklaces with Taoist trigrams, embroidered silk purses in all colors. As she searched, she remembered the words cancer and radiation, and wondered what talisman could ward off pain. Past a wall of cemetery items, candles and death money, there were strands of mini-temples and bot gwa talismans, amulets, and charm bracelets. She needed a different talisman. If mercy wasn’t enough, she’d have to switch from the goddess Kuan Yin to a stronger, more masculine god. Naturally, she came upon Kwan Kung, General Kwan, God of War. Computer-etched onto the gold-plated metal card, Kwan Kung with his flowing black beard, his battle ax, and his fierce scowl was the one.
There was, after all, a war going on in Sai Go’s body.
Bo also noticed the display rack of Good Luck Jade. She chose a solitary gourd of translucent pale jade, about the size of a nickel, hanging off a long strand of red, lucky thread. The gourd of the Shaolin monks, who used it to trap evil inside.
She paid for the items, carefully placing Sai Go’s prescription and note inside the bag. At the door, she hesitated, mouthing a silent prayer before stepping back into the cold gray Chinatown morning.
Betting Against Time
The streets were frozen and the wind chill slashed at his bones.
He’d come back from the gambling trip with a gaunt face. He’d eaten heartily at the buffet tables whenever he found his appetite, but still he’d lost seven pounds.
As a matter of habit, Sai Go drifted in the direction of the OTB, but caught himself on the Bowery and turned toward the old park on Mulberry, which he knew would be desolate this time of year.
The west end of the park was where the old men usually gathered, in the open court or under the tall trees that circled an open pavilion. The stone structure had a gabled slate roof with eaves supported by simple ionic columns and arches. The pavilion was accessed by a rise of a dozen steps to an open expanse of tiled floor.
Sai Go remembered taking bets there in his earlier years. Now the space was deserted except for an occasional encampment of the homeless. Fronting the pavilion was an open court, in the middle of which stood a tall flagpole that looked like a tall white cross. The American flag was at the top, then a Parks Department flag and a New York City flag at quarter-mast, all drooping and dangling against the cold windless sky. Under the flags was an arrangement of tables and benches under the bare maples and walnuts, trees that were scarred not only by the extremes of the seasons, but by hacks and gouges from the knives and tools of the men who gathered there in good weather to play Chinese chess and checkers. Sometimes crowds three-deep surrounded a good match, all men, smoking cigarettes and swapping tales and memories.
Memories.
He was drawing on memories now, reviewing parts of the life that had brought him to this end. Sitting alone, on the bench under the naked trees, he clutched the Buddhist mercy talisman, and contemplated the rest of his dying days.
Blanket Party.
Wong had worked along with the two extra uniforms who’d stayed behind, canvassing in the darkness, checking the adjacent buildings.
They searched the maintenance areas: a New York City Housing Authority gardener’s shed, and a fenced-in lot for dumpsters and garbage bins. They checked the cages where the porters and mechanics stored supplies, and the loading docks where they staged the project’s garbage for pickup.
Nothing.
Just the cops freezing their asses off on Christmas morning, slogging through the graveyard run.
The man with the wounded leg had clammed up. EMS had taken him to Beth Israel Emergency, together with his home-boy with the hole in his chest.
Wong continued diligently through the night, the falling snow covering everything, wiping out any track or trail. Toward dawn he was advised via radio that a senior detective would be assisting. Pasini, something. Use to be senior dick in the 0-Nine until he transferred to Staten Island.
Daylight came as they were searching rooftops.
Some projects children, playing in the drifts in FDR Park, noticed the pretty red snow, the crimson liquid seeping out of an icy mound. Buried beneath was a bulky shape inside black garbage bags. A parent notified one of the uniforms on the incoming shift, who then radioed P.O. Wong.
“Near the crossover-the overpass-park side, about Sixth Street.”
Inside the black bags, they found a battered body, loosely wrapped in an Oakland Raiders bedsheet and a ratty comforter. At first, Wong couldn’t tell the victim was Chinese, the head and face were so beaten, beyond recognition, a pulpy mass red with blood. Black hair matted down, a corpse wearing a gray jacket stained red-black, with a hoodie attached, Timberland boots on his feet.
His blood had found its way out of the wrapping, gravity working to stain the white flakes like a cherry snow cone.
Wong was shaken and fatigued, but knew he’d have to manage in the following hours, and days.
As the ME’s wagon carried the body away, he noted on his report Notify parents, positively identify body, knowing whoever was going to pick up the case would need all the information about the two gangsta perps.
In the cold naked daylight he went back to the takeout where he found the parents still waiting behind the shuttered gates, almost hysterical, fearful of the worst. Upon seeing Wong, the mother began to cry. The father put his arm around her shoulders, and Wong said to him, “We think we’ve found him.”
“Think?” The father took halting breaths.
“We need you to come, to identify the. . to make sure. .” Wong struggled, as both parents wailed and collapsed against each other.
Above and Beyond
Jack dressed quietly, letting the nurses pass on their rounds.
He knew neither perp was going anywhere. He called in a trace of the telephone number used to place the take-out orders and went straight from the Discharge Unit to the crime scene at Four-Forty-Four, walking through the slush. The rear of the projects was just as ugly in daylight. He went past the word NIGGAZ in big block letters proudly tagged in black marker across the building’s cinderblock wall. It didn’t strike him as a power word, not professing ownership of anything but self-hatred. He felt the word was just niggers with a different shine on it. It was a black thing, he’d been told; you wouldn’t understand.