Роберт Паркер - All Our Yesterdays

Knocko picked Conn up in front of the Brighton Avenue apartment house at quarter to eleven on a bright September morning.

“When I called in, Captain wanted to talk with you. I said you were taking a leak.”

“You’re a fine Irishman, Knocko.”

“Who you fucking this morning?” Knocko said.

“Lovely little Protestant girl,” Conn said. “Named Sheila Hinkley. Husband’s a school principal.”

Knocko put the car in gear, let the clutch out, and eased the car out into traffic.

“Don’t think I ever fucked a Protestant,” he said. “Imagine it’s about the same.”

“Funny, isn’t it,” Conn said. “It’s always about the same, but you always want to try another.”

“So tell me about it,” Knocko said. “For Crissake, I drop you off, pick you up, and cover for you while you’re fucking. At least I should get to hear about it.”

Conn grinned.

“You should get out more, Knocko. Be good for you.”

“Not if Faith caught me,” Knocko said. “Sheila go down on you?”

Conn told him.

Knocko was full of admiration.

“And you’re still fucking Mellen?”

“Sure,” Conn said.

“Man, I was betting against you on that one,” Knocko said. “I told Faith, she wouldn’t believe me.”

“All it takes is patience,” Conn said.

“Well, Conn, darlin’, it’s a tireless worker you are.”

“Every man needs a hobby,” Conn said.

Knocko tapped the siren and drove through a red light at the merge of Brighton and Commonwealth avenues.

“Where we headed?” Conn said.

“Chinatown.”

“The killing in the mah-jongg parlor?”

“Un-huh.”

“Shit,” Conn said. “I hate Chinatown.”

“Good noodles,” Knocko said.

“Yeah, and you can get your shirts done nice. But the fucking Chinamen won’t talk to you and if you chase one he’s into one of those buildings and it’s like chasing a rat through a maze.”

“So, we just let them shoot each other?”

Conn shrugged.

“Might as well,” he said. “We never catch anybody anyway.”

“Hey, put in the eight-hour day, draw the eight-hour pay,” Knocko said. “At least we’re fucking working.”

“I’ve already put in two hard hours,” Conn said.

Knocko grinned.

“It may have been hard, Conn-boy, but I wouldn’t call it working.”

“You would if you did as much of it as I do,” Conn said.

“Nobody does as much of it as you do,” Knocko said.

And he and Conn were both laughing as Knocko pulled in beside a hydrant on Tyler Street, and they got out.

There were two Chinatowns. There was the one that fronted on the streets, where tourists strolled; and the real one, where the Chinese lived close together. The real one existed in alleys, and passageways behind the restaurants bright with garish dragons, and the export-import businesses with fronts made to look like Asian temples. The Boston police supervised tourist Chinatown. The tongs ran the rest.

The mah-jongg parlor was a narrow building behind the Shanghai Dragon restaurant. It was little more than a shed with unpainted clapboard siding, and no windows. It was lit by a big industrial ceiling fixture. The room was nearly empty at midday when Knocko and Conn walked in. Knocko palmed his badge at the narrow, middle-aged Chinese man sitting on a stool near the door smoking a cigarette.

“You the head Chink?” Knocko said.

The Chinese man wore black pajamas, and a black skullcap over a pigtail. He looked at the two men with eyes as expressionless and flat as two ovals of black jade. Smoke drifted slowly from his nostrils as he exhaled. He said nothing.

“Listen, Moo Goo, a guy got murdered here the other night. What can you tell me about that?” Knocko said.

“No speak,” the Chinese man said.

Conn was looking idly around the room. It was full of unmatched tables and chairs. At two of the tables there were mah-jongg pieces. At one of them a cigarette smoldered in an ashtray as if it had been hastily stubbed out.

“Yeah, sure,” Knocko said comfortably, “none of you fucking speak. Unless of course somebody got some money, wants to buy your fucking sister, huh, Chop-Chop? Then you speak like the fucking queen of England.”

The Chinese man showed nothing. He didn’t move except to smoke his cigarette. Conn put his hand under the edge of one of the mah-jongg tables and tipped it over, scattering the game on the floor.

“Oops,” he said. And smiled at the Chinese man.

Knocko took a small shabby notebook from his shirt pocket and opened it and leafed through it, periodically moistening his huge thumb, until he found what he was looking for.

“Victim was guy named Pieng Wong, alias Joe Wong, alias Jo Jo Wood, male, Chinese, age twenty-three, alleged tong enforcer.”

Conn walked aimlessly about the room, tipped over another table. The Chinese man smoked his cigarette.

“What we hear is his tong sent him around to talk to you ‘cause you weren’t paying the regular fee. And you weren’t paying the regular fee because your tong said you didn’t have to. And Jo Jo said you did have to pay and somebody from your tong settled the issue by putting a couple of slugs into Jo Jo’s belly. We’d kind of like to know who that was. Whadda you hear, Ching-a-ling?”

“No speak.”

Knocko shook his head and put the notebook back in his shirt pocket. The Chinese man put a fresh cigarette in his mouth and lit it with a kitchen match. He shook the match out, dropped it on the floor, and inhaled a long drag on the cigarette. He was letting the smoke out slowly when Knocko hit him backhanded across the face, and slapped the cigarette out of his mouth. The Chinese man’s expression didn’t change. He reached into his pocket and took out another cigarette.

From a door in the back of the mah-jongg parlor four other Chinese men appeared. They were young, and slim. Three wore the black pajamas and skullcap and pigtail. One of them wore a double-breasted blue pinstripe suit, gleaming black shoes, and a diamond stickpin in his red silk tie.

“Aha,” Conn said. His face brightened as he saw them.

The one in the blue suit said, “My uncle doesn’t speak English.”

“And you do,” Knocko said.

The four men spread out in a loose semicircle.

“I speak your language,” the Blue Suit said. “The language you just spoke to my uncle.”

“You threatening a police officer?” Knocko said.

The Blue Suit smiled. His three companions were expressionless. The uncle had a new cigarette lighted and was smoking, though his lip had begun to puff.

“Perhaps I am,” the Blue Suit said.

“Then let’s see,” Conn said. His eyes were open wide and he smiled. “Let’s get right to the threatening and see if you’re any good, Chinaboy.”

All four men looked at him silently. He walked several steps toward them, holding his coat open. The handle of his holstered service revolver showed, butt forward on the left side of his belt. His voice was pleasant.

“See, the gun’s still in the holster. See how many shots you get off before I get it out.”

“Conn,” Knocko said.

“Fuck ’em, Knocko,” Conn said. “Let’s see which of us is afraid to die.” He spoke again to the Blue Suit. “You crazy, Chinaboy? You as crazy as I am? You want to see? Let’s see. We’ll shoot. I been shooting since you were eating goo goo berries in Shanghai.”

The Blue Suit spoke to Knocko.

“Your friend is not afraid to die?”

There was strain in Knocko’s voice.

“No,” Knocko said. “He ain’t. He don’t give a shit.”

The Blue Suit nodded slowly.