Authors: Suki Kim
The Interpreter (17 page)
With each year, Grace became more and more withdrawn from the rest of the family. There was a certain anger Suzy sensed, but nothing palpable enough to put a finger on. The only thing she knew was that if Grace had had a choice she would not have wanted to be her sister, or, more clearly, her parents’ daughter, and it was this realization that always came between the sisters. The coldness, or the unassailable distance between them, was in fact a clear desire for separation.
But why, even now, even years later, Suzy cannot say.
“Sorry, I got carried away. Maybe you’re right. I could turn forty and still be obsessing over dead writers.” Jen is getting up.
It is now past five o’clock. The fax from Harrison might be waiting for her. The day is far from over.
It is now past five o’clock. The fax from Harrison might be waiting for her. The day is far from over.
“Thanksgiving. I guess it’s Thanksgiving soon.” Suzy suddenly recalls the holiday with Damian. He did not believe in it, she knew. He hated holidays. But he seemed to derive a certain oblique pleasure from celebrating this particular American tradition with her, as though he were maneuvering a young woman onto a sordid path. He claimed it an
éducation sentimentale
in the American way. He would fuss over each stage of preparation. The ten-pound turkey that was too big for the two of them, the bread stuffing baked with yellow raisins and macadamia nuts, the cranberry sauce simmered for exactly half an hour, the pumpkin pie he had preordered from Balducci’s because he did not bake. He loved watching her eat. He himself hardly touched the food. “Dreadful memories,” he said. “You cannot imagine the atrocity of the Midwestern Thanksgiving. Everyone gorges on the feast, because there’s nothing else to do. No one has anything to say, because overeating does that to a mind. Remember, it’s the core of the American culture, the barest of food, the big slab of what barely qualifies as a bird.” No one was more cynical about America than Damian, which must have been why he became fascinated with Asian art. But did it mean that he loved Asia?
He cannot love an Asian woman
, Professor Tamiko had warned her. Yet it took the death of her parents for Suzy to leave him.
éducation sentimentale
in the American way. He would fuss over each stage of preparation. The ten-pound turkey that was too big for the two of them, the bread stuffing baked with yellow raisins and macadamia nuts, the cranberry sauce simmered for exactly half an hour, the pumpkin pie he had preordered from Balducci’s because he did not bake. He loved watching her eat. He himself hardly touched the food. “Dreadful memories,” he said. “You cannot imagine the atrocity of the Midwestern Thanksgiving. Everyone gorges on the feast, because there’s nothing else to do. No one has anything to say, because overeating does that to a mind. Remember, it’s the core of the American culture, the barest of food, the big slab of what barely qualifies as a bird.” No one was more cynical about America than Damian, which must have been why he became fascinated with Asian art. But did it mean that he loved Asia?
He cannot love an Asian woman
, Professor Tamiko had warned her. Yet it took the death of her parents for Suzy to leave him.
“But you don’t celebrate Thanksgiving …”
Jen is careful. In college, Suzy used to stay behind while everyone went home for Thanksgiving. Jen would come back after a week, grumbling about having gained five pounds. But things are different now. It is no longer a choice. There is no celebration, no family. Holidays always make people feel sorry for Suzy. Even Jen, who should know better.
“No, of course not. I just remembered, that’s all.”
“Come to Connecticut. I’m going to Colorado first with Stephen, which makes Mom and Dad furious. But with his insane schedule at the hospital, this is probably the only time I’ll get to meet all his family. So I promised Mom that I’ll fly back early and spend at least three days at home. So come. We can lie around the house and eat leftovers and play Monopoly. They always ask about you.”
Colorado with a boyfriend. Connecticut to see Mom and Dad. Suzy cannot help feeling a little envy. She has never had that. Not even when she had parents. Damian was not exactly a boyfriend, the same way Michael isn’t. Damian would never have brought her to his childhood home. Suzy was what he chose in order to run from all that, as she did him. The two of them together could never have built a family. How could they, when neither believed in it? But why? Where did her parents go wrong?
“Thank you. I’ll think about it.”
They both know that Suzy won’t come. But it is nice to dream about it anyway. Sitting around the parents’ house eating leftovers. Doing nothing for three days except playing Monopoly with Mom and Dad. But in such a dream, the house is in Montauk, and everything appears the same—the pastel house, Mom’s brand-new Jeep, Dad’s fishing rods, the bag of Korean goodies Suzy has brought from the city—except for someone else, someone standing in the rain against the lighthouse, in so much November rain that for a second it looks as though the person is quietly weeping.
THE 41ST PRECINCT is located on the better part of Gun Hill Road. The sidewalk is freshly swept. No one honks as though his mother’s honor depends on it. No one fires a shot just for the hell of it. Even the boom-box blasters stay clear. Any half-brained crook knows better than to defile its sanctimonious ground. This is where the mayor’s fury takes out its revenge. This is where his soldiers plot out their games. This is where the NYPD rules.
Two officers are leaning against the patrol car smoking cigarettes when Suzy approaches the two-story concrete building. Across the trunk of the white car are the big blue letters of allegiance:
Courtesy. Professionalism. Respect
. One of the officers skims her over with a whistle, nudging the other with his elbow. They both appear to be about Suzy’s age, maybe even younger, the local boys who grew up watching way too many episodes of
S.W.A.T.,
whose sweethearts must be waiting at home with a couple of toddlers.
Courtesy. Professionalism. Respect
. One of the officers skims her over with a whistle, nudging the other with his elbow. They both appear to be about Suzy’s age, maybe even younger, the local boys who grew up watching way too many episodes of
S.W.A.T.,
whose sweethearts must be waiting at home with a couple of toddlers.
“May we help you?” asks Whistle Boy. He is the joker, the one who is not ashamed to ogle any passerby in a skirt.
“Not really.” She is not up to this hide-and-seek right now. She is about to enter the station. Hardly any help necessary.
“C’mon. We can’t let a lady walk in by herself!” Whistle Boy won’t let go. He must be bored. This must be his off-time from ticketing double-parkers. Beneath the uniform and the badge, he is still a mere boy. The sweet dimples. The awkward crew cut. Suzy can’t help smiling a little.
“See, I made you laugh. You must let us escort you inside. Let me tell you, it’s a jungle in there! Ain’t I right, Bill?” He turns to his partner, who laughs along. Bill is the shy one, even handsome. A black man with a clean-shaven head. A set of twinkling brown eyes.
“Sorry. No escorting for me. But maybe you can tell me where I might find Detective Lester in the Homicide Unit.”
Then another set of whistles.
“Oh well, she’s here to see the boss!” shouts Whistle Boy, turning to Bill, who finally straightens up from the car and says, “Please excuse him; not all of us are like this jerk over here. Follow me inside. I’ll take you to Lester.”
Suzy is glad that it is the quiet one who is leading her inside. Before following Bill through the door, she turns around once as Whistle Boy hollers after her: “See, I knew it. The bastard always gets the girls!”
Once inside, she is led upstairs, away from the commotion of the general area. Detective Lester is being held up with a real head-case, Bill tells her, motioning her to wait in one of the wooden chairs in front of the door marked “Private.”
“A thirteen-year-old, just brought in for blowing some grandpa in the back of his Nissan for twenty bucks,” he says,
shaking his head. “It’s the fifth time we’ve taken her off the street in the last six months. A kid hooker with her pimp daddy on crack. The city’s filled with them, and the juvenile agencies are way too swamped and fucked up, and the kid ends up back out on street in a matter of days. Except this time somebody’s popped her daddy.” He brings her a can of Coke from the vending machine. Too cold, it is the last thing she wants, but she takes it anyway.
shaking his head. “It’s the fifth time we’ve taken her off the street in the last six months. A kid hooker with her pimp daddy on crack. The city’s filled with them, and the juvenile agencies are way too swamped and fucked up, and the kid ends up back out on street in a matter of days. Except this time somebody’s popped her daddy.” He brings her a can of Coke from the vending machine. Too cold, it is the last thing she wants, but she takes it anyway.
The corridor is curiously designed so that the end appears interminably long, although the distance couldn’t be more than thirty yards. There are three rooms on each side of the corridor. Each room is marked “Private,” which must mean that inside is where serious questionings take place. She can hear nothing. No noise escapes. It is eerily silent, as if the entire building were soundproof, and bulletproof.
Two bullets total. Not one wasted. Not one straying off its course. Not one missing its target.
“So you here for a case?” Bill is making small talk. He seems reluctant to leave her, or perhaps he is not allowed to leave anyone unattended. After all, this is the inner world of the police station. It is probably not safe for her to be here alone. Who knows, one of those being questioned inside could set himself free and burst out the door. Imagine, to be held as a hostage while waiting for the Bronx detective who’s done nothing at all for the past five years.
“Yes, a case,” answers Suzy, taking a fuzzy sip from the can.
“Which one? Maybe I know something about it.” He is trying to be helpful. He is not being cocky, like most policemen she’s met before. But she knows that he could not possibly know anything. Five years ago, he must have only just finished the Police Academy.
“I doubt it. It’s an old case.” Suzy smiles, not wanting to sound dismissive.
“Unsolved, then. Parents?” he asks placidly. It is the first time, she thinks, someone has mentioned her parents’ death without the inevitable gulp of hesitation and stammer.
“Yes, both of them. How did you know?” She is surprised at the casualness with which she answers him.
“We get a hunch in our field. A smart-looking young woman like you showing up here in the middle of the day looking for Lester, it’s gotta be serious. Besides, you being Asian helps. Model citizens, hard workers, all that stuff is pretty much true, except for some of those punks out in Queens. You’ve got no business coming in here unless it’s family trouble. Parents most likely, since you don’t look married to me.”
His voice is soothing, she thinks. A young man of her age. No wedding ring. Polite, straightforward. She never talks to men like him. They remain out of her range, always. Something about them belongs in another world. Something about them suggests a home, a different kind of home from what she knows.
“I’m not trying to impress you, although maybe just a little. But the real clue is your face. I hope you don’t mind me saying this …” Bill takes a gulp from his can of Coke and says, “You’ve got the face of a mourner.”
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.”
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.
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.
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.
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