Suki Kim - The Interpreter

Even that does not deter the sudden calm of the moment. Face of a mourner. He is probably right. The years must wear on her face, the five-plus immense years.

“Why, you feel sorry for me?” she asks with a tight smile. Desperation. This must be what desperation is, to beg a stranger for his heart.

“No, I don’t. But it’s okay to let people feel sorry for you.” Then he adds quickly, “But don’t get me wrong, I’m not pulling my friend Don Juan out there.”

“I know.” Suzy nods, to reassure him. She wants him to know that she understands.

“Listen, if you have any questions, or just wanna talk or something, feel free to call me at the station. Ask for Officer Edwards. Bill Edwards. I’m usually here, unless out there hauling kid hookers off the street.”

He grins bashfully. A nice guy. The sort of guy who probably won’t make a good policeman. Too soft. Too sincere. She will never call him. It would not be fair to him.

“Hey, sorry to keep you waiting.”

Detective Lester emerges from the room, wiping the sweat off his face. He motions Bill to go inside; Bill waves at Suzy with a big warm smile before following the order. And just like that, the momentary calm breaks. She is back here now, back in the Bronx police station where the record of her dead parents has been gathering dust among the forgotten files.

“C’mon. We should go into my office for a talk. You look good. Five years, hah! Long time. I swear, the only thing that flies is time. How’re you doing, married yet? Any kids?”

He is one of those jovial older men who ask several questions at once, none of which is meant to be a real inquiry. He is stocky, not quite big, but solid. His balding head is supported by a remarkably rotund neck. His dark-brown bomber jacket squeaks each time he moves.

“Good to see you. What you been up to? Are you never home? We tried you several times last week.” He removes a dusty leather armchair from the corner, filled with stacks of paper and a few gold medals and piles of photographs. Suzy just smiles in return. She knows that he is not expecting a response.

“I gather you don’t know why you’re here?” He finally sits down, facing her across the desk. He looks suddenly more alert. No more of the avuncular chatter. He means business now. That’s the tricky thing with these guys who work for Uncle Sam. You never know what they are thinking. You can never be sure which side they are on.

“I know coming here like this isn’t exactly a ball game for you. Believe me, I haven’t forgotten your parents’ case. I know you haven’t either.” His voice is almost deadpan, as though the speech is already rehearsed, as though he has run these lines before with another sad girl, another heartbroken family member.

“But something funny turned up. Or not funny at all, in fact. About two weeks ago, I got a call from the AOCTF in Queens, that’s Asian Organized Crime Task Force, the special unit of the FBI. Supposedly they got a tip about some sort of trafficking and raided a pool hall in Flushing. During the search, they found, hidden underneath a pool table, a bag filled with ice. Twenty kilos, probably the biggest stash of ice they’ve seen in Queens in years. You know what ice is?”

She shakes her head. A sort of drug, obviously. Cocaine. Heroin. Suzy’s never been into that culture. She tried pot once in college and threw up violently. It didn’t suit her system. A lucky break, which confirmed nicotine as her only vice.

“Crystal methamphetamine. You might be familiar with its other names. Rock candy. Shabu Shabu. Tina. Krissy. Same thing. Speed, the nineties version. Lethal. Harder than cocaine. Ice has always been the West Coast thing, definitely not the drug of choice around here, which means that those boys in the pool hall were up to something bigger than what we’ve seen recently, a much higher game than the usual gambling and racketeering. So, right away, the Narcotics Squad goes ape-shit. They round up the suckers and narrow down on three connected to Triad, the international Chinese gang. Except these are Korean. Three former members of Korean Killers, which disbanded in the early nineties. You following all this? You wondering why I’m telling you all this?”

He talks fast, too fast for her. Ice. Triad. None of it rings a bell, except for Korean Killers. They were notorious around Queens high schools, although nobody Suzy knew had ever met one.

“During one of the all-nighters, your father’s name popped up.” He stares straight into her face. “Got any idea why?”

She stares back, not clear whether he expects an answer. He does not budge. Nothing on his face. No help there. Finally, she breaks: “No.”

“Neither do we.” He rises suddenly from the chair, as if needing fresh air. “Mind if I smoke?” he says, lighting one of his Lucky Strikes. “What’s funny, or I shouldn’t say funny, okay, what’s peculiar is that one of those KK boys brought up your parents’ killing from five years ago. The one called Maddog, the ringleader. Maddog kept saying that they didn’t do it. He swore that they had nothing to do with it. He claimed that when they arrived at the store your parents were already dead. He even went on to say that it was a setup, a conspiracy. Then he just clammed up. He realized that he’d slipped up. The squad had no idea about any of this, of course. They knew nothing about your parents’ case. Their sole interest was the source of that bucket of ice they found. But now they’ve got possible murder suspects on their hands for an unsolved five-year-old crime. So I’m the man they turn to, and I go over there and sit up with those assholes for three straight nights, and nothing, none of them will say a goddamn thing, especially Maddog. These are hard boys. Triad. Korean Killers. Any idea what they do to the one who squeals? These boys have been trained to shut their mouths. They’d rather die than betray their honor. Honor, my ass, their monthly paycheck revolves around trafficking either drugs or counterfeits or women. Still, these Asian gangs mean business. They’ve done their homework. They’re even more tightly organized than the Italian mobs. Nothing in the world can get a word out of them at this point, which is why I called you a few days ago.” He sucks hard on his Lucky before stubbing it out, as though the monologue has brought him beyond a point of frustration.

“Because?” Suzy is at a loss. Asian gangs. Her parents shot at the store. Anything is possible.

“Because you might know something. Because you might remember if your father had owed the KK a few thousand dollars, or if he’d used their service for one thing or another, or if he had some secret drug habit, or if he’d gotten himself on their bad side for whatever…”

“Excuse me, Detective, but I know nothing like that.”

Five years of silence, and now a gang connection. Except her father might not have been so innocent.

“Think, though. Was there any point at which you might’ve seen something or heard something? Did you ever see any strange set of people coming in and out of your house? Did your parents ever talk about a private loan from somewhere?” He is groping for a clue. No more Mr. Deadpan. Each question is a bit more heated. Each question resembles a threat.

“Nothing at all.” She can barely contain the anger rising within her.

“Work with me, Suzy. We might’ve found the answer. These boys vehemently deny any involvement, which can only mean one thing, that they were involved somehow. It’s got KK fingerprints all over it. The way they do away with their enemies. The exactness of the shooting. Did they do it? I don’t know yet. But I sure am gonna find out. So you’ve gotta cooperate. Try to remember something, anything.” He is turning into the nice uncle again. He is pleading with Suzy. He wants desperately to pin the murder on these boys. Why not? It’s the only lead he’s got.