Jack O'Connell - Wireless

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.

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.”

Loke stares at her, brings his voice back to friendly, and says, “Why are you here, Detective?”

“You sit back down, junior,” she says, and he does, slowly. “I know the whole story about you and your family. Uncle Chak wouldn’t even be breathing if the Latinos hadn’t had a power vacuum at a crucial moment.”

Loke makes an ugly grin at her. “Ah yes,” he says. “Mr. Cortez. The King of Bangkok Park. My understanding is he had to leave town in a great hurry. I’ve heard rumors about Cortez. Wasn’t he a close friend of your mentor? What was her name? Lee-Ann? Lorraine? Something …”

Hannah takes a second, steadies herself, and leers back. “That’s it, friend. Show me the extent of your ignorance. Tip your whole hand. Jesus, it comes down in the genes.”

“Again, Detective, I don’t mean to offend. Like everyone in the Park, I simply hear rumors.”

Hannah looks over to the floor-to-ceiling cabinets to her left and says, “Cortez would have gutted your fat uncle on a whim. Had him served as the weekend special at Chak’s own noodle joint.”

She looks back at Loke and head-motions to the cabinet. “What’s in there?”

Loke loves the question. “The usual, Detective. Office supplies. Paper. Pens. Instant coffee.”

Hannah rubs her eyes. “Decaf, I’m sure.”

She gets up from the desk, turns her back to Loke, and studies the wall maps of Cambodia and Quinsigamond. Without turning back around, she says, “I believe that you didn’t whack the priest.”

“I appreciate the vote of confidence,” Loke says.

Hannah shrugs, moves a fingertip up to follow a local street, and says, “You’re not smart enough to grab a Yale diploma, even with Chak’s big check to the endowment. But you’re not stupid or ragged enough to make that public a hit for no reason.”

“The Hyenas have enough to be concerned about. We have no need to murder an innocent civilian.”

Hannah turns around.

“Then who did it?” she asks. “And why do they want us to think it’s you?”

Loke shrugs and tries to look bored. “Maybe the Popes? We’ve been having our differences, as you know.”

Hannah shrugs back at him. “Maybe.”

“It could be anyone, Detective. Maybe the Castlebar Road Boys. Those Irish, they always have the religious hang-ups.”

Hannah walks over to him, raises her right leg, and plants her boot on the cushion of Loke’s chair, her pointed toe a half inch from his crotch.

Loke raises his eyebrows, looks from the boot up to Hannah, and says, “It would never work, Detective. The difference in our ages—”

Hannah cuts him off and in a low voice says, “You had a visitor in here recently, didn’t you, asshole?”

“I don’t know—”

The toe of her boot edges forward just a bit and she lowers it just enough to touch the inseam of Loke’s pants.

“You answer my fucking question right now, you dickhead Ivy League scumbag. You’ve got no idea what kind of problems I can bring into your life. You already know I carry some kind of weight down here. You know that because Uncle Chak told you. But Uncle Chak is a lightweight jarhead who hasn’t been playing the Park long enough to know who backs me or why. He doesn’t know how I figure in the landscape. And he can’t risk anyone in his family pissing me off until he finds out.”

She applies some more pressure onto his crotch. His eyes stay fixed on her.

“That’s a position I love to be in, junior. I love to be feared. So keep me happy. You shiver a little bit. And you tell me who came to visit you.”

“Obviously,” Loke says, a small catch in his throat as if he needed a sip of water, “you already know.”

“I want to hear you say it, junior.”

He takes a breath, puts his hands on the arms of the chair, smiles. “A young woman named Hazel. An artist type from down in the Canal Zone.”