The silence was broken by the rumbling complaint of tractor trailers on the street outside, big trucks navigating the bouncing length of Canal Street, heading toward the Holland Tunnel.
Jack pulled a stool up to the table and sat, showing the gold detective’s badge at his waist. He smelled camphor, the scent of mon gum yao, tiger balm, and bok fa yao, minty oil. The old men had resorted to herbal liniments to help fight off their looming nausea and despair.
The more haggard of the two spoke first. “We appreciate your help,” he said. “Ah Gong here remembered your father, Sing gor.”
The other man said, “We asked for you because a tong yen, Chinese, would be more understanding … that this is the saddest day of our lives.”
“I respect that,” Jack answered. “Who called me?”
“I am lo Gong,” said the second man. “My son … is the dead man. I got your telephone number from the police card that your father had left here.”
Jack remembered. He believed that Pa, in his disdain and anger over his son becoming a running dog cop, had discarded his NYPD detective’s card. So this murder-suicide case had come his way through his dead father’s actions.
Gong removed a driver’s license from his wallet, handing it over to Jack.
“Ah jai,” he whispered. “My son.”
“This is against nature,” Fong said. “We are not meant to survive our children.”
Jack nodded quietly in agreement. Bitterness and anger choked their voices, two old heads shaking in disbelief: How can this be? Their eyes searched desperately in the middle distance for answers.
The license was expired, but recent enough. The male shooter had been Harry Gong, thirty-four years old, five feet nine inches in height. He had an address at Grand Street, toward the northern edge of Chinatown.
He looked more like a student than a gangbanger.
There was a pronounced silence in the empty meeting hall, then each of the fathers spoke in turn, spilling out the story of how he reached this … end of the world.
“They’d been together five years. Husband and wife,” said Gong.
“They have two young children. Two and three years old,” added Fong.
“A happy family …”
Jack took a deep shaolin boxer’s breath through his nose. He hated cases where children were involved; those situations gouged at his toughness, fractured the hard shell he’d built around his cop’s heart.
He let the men continue in their odd Chinese cadence.
“Then they separated, this year.”
“She had a depression. The kind young mothers get.”
“He was afraid for the children.”
“They had bruises.”
“She moved back to her old studio apartment.”
“He hoped the situation would get better.”
“Then she got a job in a bakery.”
“After a few months, she asked for a separation.”
“And he agreed, reluctantly.”
Neither man had shed a tear but Jack could sense the sadness and anger just beneath the grim masks of their faces.
“She seemed better, and visited the children.”
“The doctor at the clinic said these things take time.”
“My son continued working long hours. Kay toy, waiting tables. At the Wong Sing. He was even more stressed, more nervous than before.”
“Our wives and cousins took care of the children.”
They paused as if to catch their breaths, Jack sensing the darkening of their tale.
“My daughter changed jobs, worked in a karaoke club. Fewer hours and more money.”
“My son found out. He didn’t like her working until four in the morning. It wasn’t a job for a woman her age.”
“She refused to quit.”
“He felt he’d lost face. One day he was angry, the next day sad.”
“But she said the money was good. And the job was like freedom. It made her feel better about herself.”
“But he couldn’t accept the idea of the club. Drinking and singing all night. The kind of people who went there …”
“She denied any involvements. She said she was only saving for her future and the children’s future.”
“They had a big argument.”
“Several weeks ago.”
“He begged her to quit.”
“But she refused again.”
“Did he threaten her?” Jack interrupted.
“It wasn’t his nature,” Gong answered.
“He kept it all inside,” from Fong.
“Did they get help? Seek counseling?” Jack asked.
“They’re both grown-ups, both thirty-something years old.”
“We felt they would work it out.”
“And you never saw this coming?” Jack challenged.
Both men shook their heads. No, no never, was followed by uneasy silence.
Seizing the moment, Jack slipped in a question, catching them off guard. “Where did he get the gun?”
Another dead pause, then both men answered in unison, “We don’t know.”
Jack let the moment drift, looking for some effect, but was met with only their gnarled stone faces.
“I didn’t see any sign of forced entry,” Jack offered.
“He had a key,” Fong said.
“From when they were dating,” added Gong.
He was waiting for her, Jack remembered thinking.
“What brought you to the scene?” he asked Gong.
“I’ve had trouble sleeping,” Gong answered. “So I was in the kitchen when my son left the apartment.”
“What time was this?”
“Three something, close to four o’clock.” Gong clenched and unclenched his fists, heartbreak working its way out despite his arthritis. “I asked where he was going som gong boon yeh, in the middle of the night? ‘For a walk,’ he said. ‘It’s freezing,’ I told him. But he said he needed the air. I waited half an hour, then I called his sau gay, cell phone, but got no answer. Then I went to look for him.”
“Why didn’t you call the police then?” quizzed Jack.
“And tell them what? I never thought something like this might happen.”
“So you went to her place?”
“I went to the singing club first, but it was already closed. Then I went to Doyers Street. I called his cell phone again, from the hallway. I could hear his ringtone from inside but it just kept ringing. I have a key, and let myself in.” He began to tremble and nervously massaged his twisted fingers.
“Ah Gong called me at about five AM,” interjected Fong. “I drove in from New Jersey. Almost an hour and a half, sitting in traffic. I didn’t know the rush hour started so early. I wanted to jump from the car and run to Chinatown.”
“I saw the bodies,” Gong continued. “I knew they were dead. But I couldn’t stay inside. I could feel their gwai- ghosts-in there. I felt I might go insane so I went into the hallway. I called the association’s secretary and asked him to call the police, to ask for you, lo Yu.”
“Who did he call, exactly?” asked Jack.
“I don’t know. He said he would take care of it.”
Jack took a breath and rose off the stool slowly, looking toward the dim daylight streaming in through the dirty picture windows. He’d have to go to the station house, see what the captain had on this.
Gong said, “We need to be strong.”
Fong agreed. “For the two families to survive. The women will become hysterical.”
“You haven’t told them?” Jack asked, quietly stunned.
“We are … preparing to … tell them. It isn’t natural, you see. How do we go on now?”
“Jing deng,” Gong said fatalistically. “It’s destiny.”
The Chinese, Jack knew, attributed acts of incomprehensible evil to destiny, jing deng, believing that things were meant to be, that there was nothing they could have done to prevent it. Self-absolution.
“Detective,” Fong said, “we hope we can depend on your discretion. In case of gossip, or rumors.”