The Chinaman has recovered his breath and returned the 'flops to his feet. Now the man looks deflated. His adrenaline rush is over.
“OK, sir. That thing in your hand?”
“I picked it from the floor. The rag too.”
“All right. Just put it on that coffee table, nice and easy, and step back.”
Perhaps, I should have asked him to do this before calling the Dispatch. How stupid of me. Well, anyway. He obeys sheepishly, placing the gut-driver on the glass table top. Then, he steps back, makes a move to wipe his hands with the bloodied rag, hesitates, and suddenly drops the rag onto the table as if it's a poisonous spider.
“Would you like some water?” I ask.
“Please.”
“Help yourself,” I point to the jug and glasses at the other desk, “this one is from the well and boiled. Safe.”
The jug beak rattles against the glass. The man empties the glass with a single gulp and then pours water again.
“Excellent. Now take a seat.”
“Thank you, ma'am.” He seats, barely touching the chair.
“Why did you run to the Beat, anyway? You should have called 911 instead.”
“We've got no phones. In our place the reception is crappy.”
Understatement, I think. Since the last hurricane, in the Chinamerican Patches Four and Five the reception has been not just ‘crappy’, but simply non-existent.
“You could knock on any door in the China-Patch Three and ask somebody to call Police for you,” while saying so, I look into my phone and touch my husband's number from the frequent calls list. Instead of the prescribed Sheriff star, the screen pops up a face of the Looney Tunes Wile E Coyote, with three little pink hearts circling above his head. Kim is very good at hacking the Police-issued phones.
“I don't know, ma'am. I just didn't think of it.”
He is right. Once you start running, your hormones kick in, and you can't think clearly. Back in March, I was a bit like this myself. Now, after my Cruise, I am way more philosophical.
“Hi, Road Runner,” the phone says in Kim's voice, “I am almost there. Seven minutes, max. Decided what to buy for a present?”
“The present has to wait, unfortunately. Tan is on his way to China-Patch Five. Happy bloody birthday, Deputy,” I reply.
“Ouch! What happened?”
“Stubbing. Possible homicide. Mister Victor Chen is with me at the Beat.”
“I'll be right there…” he sounds exceptionally worried. Well, he is always worried about his little wife. As if I can't defend myself.
Three minutes later the door rattles and my dear Deputy Kim storms in, ready to establish Order through Law and dispense Justice with Mercy[1]. Or without. Whichever is available today? He stops on his tracks observing the peaceful Beat settings. I am not under attack, after all.
“Wile E Coyote, reporting on-duty, ma'am,” he says, hopelessly trying to hide that he has been pedaling his bike like mad.
“OK, Mister Coyote. For starters, please collect the weapon,” I reach to the lower drawer and pass my husband two evidence bags. The Chinaman makes a double-take at Kim, probably imagining some American Indian heritage. Deputy Coyote. Surely, he has expected an Amerasian surname. Although, in the Houston slums one never knows: the ethnic boundaries are shuttered, and my happy marriage is just one example.
Kim points at the coffee table: “these?”
“Yep. Please be carefuclass="underline" it's a bio-hazard. Besides, there is still slim hope for prints.”
I don't really need to tell him that. He has been in the Police way longer than I. Kim carefully maneuvers the evidence in, and now the gut-driver and the rag are secured.
“Mister Chen, please tell us briefly what you saw,” I inquire meanwhile.
“Came home as usual. Friday is a short day. My father is on the bed. Blood… And this – on the floor,” he makes a weak motion towards the evidence bags in Kim's hand.”
“You said: as usual. What time was it?”
“Four-fifteen, approximately. I work at the 'tronics repair. The second Friday of the month – it's my turn. To take an early off. At half past three.” His phrases are short, but he speaks perfect English. If Kim pays attention, he can do the same posh British accent – the remnants of his few years in a private school.
Interesting, which particular China our Chinaman is from? By the sound of it, he is not from the Mainland, and probably not from Hong Kong. And not a Russian Chinese from Siberia either – those are typically taller and speak with strange R-s and H-es. Taiwanese roots? Right! He pronounces his surname as ‘Chen’. If he was from Hong Kong, he would say ‘Chan’. Although, he can be also a Malaysian or Singaporean Chinese. Well, but the Singaporeans say ‘Tan’ instead of ‘Chan’. No, it's not true either. The Singaporeans also have ‘Chen’, but it's a totally different hieroglyph. Inconclusive. Well-developed cheek bones… My dear Watson, that's a stereotype. Oh, but he says he is an electronics repairman. Let see. All the nails cut short. The Singaporean Chinese often leave long nail at the pinky. The skin on both index fingers is not burnt. Uses tweezers and a board holder? This suggests a Taiwamerican or Japamerican-run repair shop. They are so professional and neat – with a fancy special tool for everything. Looking at the man's 'flops, they are old, but not beaten-up. He has no bike. Dropping one at home to run for over a mile? Hard to imagine. So his shop is not very far from his home… A Malaysian Chinese, working in a Taiwanese shop? Not improbable, but unlikely.
“Are you Taiwamerican, Mister Chen?” I suddenly ask.
Darn! I have to learn not to pop my conclusions like this.
“Yes, we came from Taiwan. But – how did you know?”
Oops! I am right again! Behind the Taiwamerican's back, my husband nods and smiles. By now, he is well-accustomed to my ‘Sherlock Holmes deductions.’ Sometimes later, he will surely beg me to explain him the trick. But not now. I have learned quite well not to disclose the full logic chain in front of the strangers. Nobody likes if a girl can see right through you, especially if this girl is from Police.
“Oh, it was a lucky guess, Mister Chen. Based on your accent, nothing special. One friend of mine, he has the same. And he's from Taiwan. Or – from Hong Kong? Not sure.”
The man nods. Now he is sure the Police Afro girl has no idea about the Chinese. Phew!
“Should we take a written statement here or let the Station guys do it?” Kim asks.
“I think you'd better take Mister Chen to his shack and wait for the Station guys,” I reply, “it's a mile and a half walk. You will be there probably at the same time as the Emergency Response.”
“And you are not coming with us, Deputy?” the Taiwamerican looks at me. Do I want to go? Sure! But I firmly belong to the office-only category. What do I suppose to do? Pull out my machine gun? Dispense Lawful Order and Merciful Justice in speedy 7.62-millimeter servings?
“I am not a Deputy, Mister Chen: a mere Records Clerk, plus a Beat secretary of sorts.”
“Clerk? But… Your uniform?”
“This is the Navy uniform. Second-hand, if you are wondering.”
I reach with my right hand to the desk corner and push my office chair sideways. The tired chair wheels make squeaking noise on the floor tiles. The chair rolls into the narrow passage between the desks. Watch this, Mr. Taiwamerican! The man's lower jaw drops, but his eyes open three times their natural size. Excellent facelift, almost like in Japanese Manga. Sadly, the effect cannot be preserved for long, or I can make heaps of money as a plastic surgeon. With those who don't know, I achieve such effect almost every time. Since my Cruise, there is almost nothing below by buttocks, so the body ends flush with the seat surface. I smile to Mr Chen apologetically: and you thought I didn't stand up from my chair because I am so rude?