Gangsta Rap
Detective Pete Pasini, who knew the precinct, knew the Riis Houses and the thug culture that bred there, was assisting the investigation through Major Case, fielding it during Jack’s short disability. A thickset man, he had a grizzled pockmarked face, and looked more like a Mafiosi than Major Case cop.
Jamal Bryant, with tubes sticking out of him, had given the middle finger to Pasini’s questions at Beth Israel Emergency, then immediately passed out. Tough-guy villain, Pasini had thought, leaving him with the nurse, guarded by the uniformed officer posted at his door. Fuck him, Pasini had thought, I don’t need him right now anyway. It wasn’t like he was going anywhere anytime soon.
DaShawn Miller’s wound wasn’t serious, not life-threatening, so they’d patched him up and the uniforms took him back down into the stationhouse.
Observing them in the cooler, from behind the mirror glass in the watch room, Jack saw Pasini hand DaShawn a cup of water. When he was done drinking they’d have his fingerprints on the cup, and his DNA inside. An old trick.
Pasini wore a sympathetic face, worked his act like a Father Confessor, the good cop.
Jack tried to place DaShawn’s face, flashing past in his mad dash from the apartment. A pair of deep-set eyes, and a flat nose with thick greedy lips below. A face crossed with fatigue and anger.
Jack buttoned the speakers, saw Pasini look up toward the sound before taking the empty cup with him.
In the watch room Pasini said quietly, “You up for this?”
“All the way,” Jack answered.
“Look, it’s your case,” said Pasini. “The chief just needs to know you’re okay with it, the vic being Chinese and all.”
“Not a problem.”
“I didn’t want to push him into lawyering up. But he’s playing tough guy anyway.”
They watched DaShawn yawn, then spit on the floor through gold-capped teeth.
“Let’s see how tough,” Jack said.
“Step in anytime you’re ready.”
Jack nodded, took a slow, deep breath, and felt the pull of the stitches in his chest. He stepped into the cooler and heel-slammed the door behind him.
Bitch Up and Turn
DaShawn looked up, disgusted, whining, “Aw, man. Not you again.”
Jack had figured that DaShawn was weak.
Wordlessly, Jack placed a tape recorder on the table and activated it.
DaShawn sneered at the recorder. The machine started pounding out the gangsta rap lyrics of the tape taken from the crime scene. DaShawn was stunned to hear it so loud in the small room, surprised that the yellow cop had picked up on it.
Jack circled behind him, let the rap run a few more beats before stopping the machine. He stood to one side of DaShawn, saying into the sudden silence, “Whup dat Chinee, huh? Chop, chop,chop?”
A nervous grin tightened DaShawn’s face.
“Funny, ha?” Jack said, leaning in, saying in a soft voice. “You shot me, you little bastard. Shoot a cop? That’s attempted murder. That alone gets you twenty-five to life. Shit, you really hit the big time now, son.” He took the tape from the recorder and waved it in front of DaShawn.
“That gives you motive. You’re a hater,” Jack said, slapping down the photograph of the three boyz in the hood. “That’s you and the gang.” Using the evidence like a box cutter, slicing away at the would-be hard-ass.
DaShawn’s eyes danced over the photo even as Jack flipped down the Polaroid shot of Tyrone. “And that’s your homey, Tyrone.” Jack paused before adding, “Who, by the way, says it was you. He says you killed the delivery boy.”
“Boo-shit,” protested DaShawn.
“Tell you what, homeboy,” Jack sneered, “you’re going down for this shit. We’ve got the Chinese kid’s blood on the bat. And the hammer. And your prints are all over them.”
“So whut?” DaShawn said. “ Lotsa people prints there, yo. We all played baseball, so whut?”
“And on the hammer? You all played hammer — ball?”
“Yeah, we wuz fixing up the crib, doing the Home Depo. .”
“Smart-ass huh? Well, your boy Jamal also says it was you all the way.”
“Nah, he ain’t said no shit like dat.”
“Oh yeah, you, all the way. Gave you up to save his own sorry ass.”
“Nah, nah, you trying to gas me, yo.”
“Jamal said you, with the bat, swinging for the yard.”
“Nah, playing me wit dis booshit.”
“Tyrone said you, with the hammer.”
“Tryin’ ta punk me. .”
“Did you do the stabbing, too? Where’s the knife?”
“I ain’t stab no one.”
“You’re saying Jamal stabbed him?” Jack continued. “Or you both stabbed him? Or you took turns stabbing him?”
“Neither one of us! And Jamal ain’t said nuthin like dat.”
“You? Or Jamal? Or Tyrone?”
“Man, step offa dat shit.”
Jack leaned down, put his palms on the table, disgust on his face, and said, “You’re looking at life, son. This isn’t TV here, you can’t change the channel. Better tell the truth, because Jamal and Tyrone are offering up your dumb ass, said you had the gun, you led the way. You know what a life sentence is like?” Jack smiled, shook his head slowly. “No weed. No pussy. Matter of fact, you’re going to be the pussy. Telling you, better fess up, son.”
“Booshit, all booshit.”
“Jamal turned on you, kid. Bitched up and turned. He said he’s not doing the bid for what you did. Tyrone, too. Said you bugged out. All he wanted was some Chinese food, but you got carried away.”
“Lying, you lying.”
“Plus we got you with the gun. That’s A-One Attempted Murder. On a cop, too.”
“We ain’t know you wuz a cop. Chinee? Shit. You ain’t had no uniform on. We thought you wuz coming back from the takeout, looking for a tip.”
“You’re lucky if you don’t get the needle.”
“Nah, man, I ain’t know you wuz a cop.”
“You ain’t know I was a cop? I yelled it out, fool. In English, not Chinee.”
“We ain’t heard shit.Wu Tang was slammin’ off the player, we couldn’t hear shit. All we saw was ching chong in the peephole.”
Jack huffed, “ And you know what? The Big Surprise?” smiling a Chesire Cat smile. “We got your DNA, too. Wanna bet we match it on the kid’s body?”
DaShawn slowly waggled his head in disbelief, speechless.
“ Jamal said you needed money. He said-”
“No, he ain’t. No, he ain’t.”
Jack straightened up, took a breath, and said, “Last chance. I’m tired. I want to go home and sleep. Take a nap. Who the fuck needs this?”
DaShawn was squeezing his fingers, rubbing his knuckles, the jittery bird in his eyes. Tyrone? Punk-ass Tyrone? But not Jamal.
“I’m tired,” Jack repeated. “Maybe I’ll just pass this shit along to the DA. If you don’t want to deal to save your own ass? Fuck you then. It’s a slam dunk anyway.”
“ Jamal?” DaShawn started drifting. “ Nah, booshit.”
“You’re all going down. It’s just a matter of how long. I can hook you up now, or you can lawyer up. Whatever. Personally, I don’t give a fuck.”
He watched DaShawn’s stare go distant.
“Gametime, DaShawn.” Jack went toward the door. “Fuck, just let the DA charge you. Murder is a bitch bid, kid.” He chopped down the door latch.
A low rumble came out of DaShawn. The rumble sounded like aah-ite and built to a roar as he slammed his fists on the table.