played some. I left around eleven oâclock. Mr. Marais was okay.â
âThe game was over? With the chess set still up?â
Jimmy licked at his lips. âMr. Marais got a call. Some guy coming to see him. No time to finish the game. I left.â
âWhat man was coming to see him?â
âI donât know.â
âHis brother? Claude Marais?â
âHe was there before I got there.â
âHe was supposed to come back.â
âNo one told me about it. Mr. Marais he expected someone, he didnât tell me who. The call was the guy he expected.â
The stocky Chinese spoke short and flat, each statement without overtones. No tone of question, no fervor of innocence. Not uninterested, but saying that he was telling all he could, and that was all. His normal manner, flat and brief, but now his left hand had begun to twitch, clench.
âDid you see the man Eugene Marais expected, Jimmy?â
âI was gone.â
âWere you drunk, Jimmy?â
âMaybe some.â
âBy ten oâclock? When do you usually start drinking? Maybe five-thirty? Six oâclock? Four and a half hours?â
âMy woman was with me, Marie. She holds me down. I took it slow. The chess game, you know? Thatâs how come I took a bottle with me to the shop. I was drunk some, not bad.â
The middle-aged Chineseâs left hand went on with its nervous jumping. He didnât hold it, or try to stop it. He didnât seem to notice it. I had the feeling that no matter where or when I talked to Jimmy Sung he would be the sameâlocked deep inside some thick shell where only he lived. Even the drab prison clothes looked much the same as his day-to-day clothes.
âWhere did you go after eleven or so, Jimmy?â
âSome bars. I told the cops. They donât believe me. No one says they saw me.â
âDid anyone see you who knew you?â
âNo one knows me much. I drink in a booth. A lot of bars.â
âNo regular tavern?â
âNo. Except where I work sweeping. I donât go to those.â
âTell me the bars,â I said.
âFugazyâs Tavern, Packyâs Pub, the Tugboat. The cops been there already.â
âYou never know when youâll get lucky,â I said. âYou saw no one else at the pawn shop that night?â
âThe girl come in, Danielle. With her kid, that Charlie Burgos. Mr. Marais tossed them out before I left.â
âWhat did they want?â
âI donât know. They was always bugging Mr. Marais. No good punk kids. No respect. Too damned weak, Mr. Marais.â
I heard the change in his voice before it showed on his broad face. A crack in the flat monotone, a catch like some liquid in his throat, and then the wet dark eyes. His jumping left hand brushed at his eyes. Whatever it was, it was no act. An edge of tears.
âThis city, I got no friends. No one. I got no name, but he was my friend, Mr. Marais. He gave me work, paid me good. I work good for him, now he got to die. He ainât like most of them. French, too, but he treats me good. That Buddha he give me, free, so when heâs dead I pray to it, burn incense. For him. Heâll be okay. He was my friend.â
What did it mean? Iâve seen killers cry for their victims before. Too many times, the murderous moment gone. Iâve even seen them forget who did the killing. Yet, Eugene Marais had been Jimmy Sungâs friend, and where was a motive for murder?
âYouâve got friends, Jimmy. Li Marais. Claude. The widow. Me, I hope. Marie Schmidt. Sheâs a strong woman, I think.â
âA drunk. Like me,â Jimmy Sung said, the moment of tears past. âShe got no one else but me. A Chink sweeps floors.â
âSheâs waiting for you,â I said.
âYeh, Marieâs okay.â
âShe wasnât there when you got home that night? What time?â
âWho knows. By then
Sharon Kleve, Jennifer Conner, Danica Winters, Casey Dawes