Free Shadow of a Tiger by Michael Collins Page B

played some. I left around eleven o’clock. Mr. Marais was okay.”
    â€œThe game was over? With the chess set still up?”
    Jimmy licked at his lips. “Mr. Marais got a call. Some guy coming to see him. No time to finish the game. I left.”
    â€œWhat man was coming to see him?”
    â€œI don’t know.”
    â€œHis brother? Claude Marais?”
    â€œHe was there before I got there.”
    â€œHe was supposed to come back.”
    â€œNo one told me about it. Mr. Marais he expected someone, he didn’t tell me who. The call was the guy he expected.”
    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.
    â€œDid you see the man Eugene Marais expected, Jimmy?”
    â€œI was gone.”
    â€œWere you drunk, Jimmy?”
    â€œMaybe some.”
    â€œBy ten o’clock? When do you usually start drinking? Maybe five-thirty? Six o’clock? Four and a half hours?”
    â€œMy woman was with me, Marie. She holds me down. I took it slow. The chess game, you know? That’s how come I took a bottle with me to the shop. I was drunk some, not bad.”
    The middle-aged Chinese’s left hand went on with its nervous jumping. He didn’t hold it, or try to stop it. He didn’t seem to notice it. I had the feeling that no matter where or when I talked to Jimmy Sung he would be the same—locked deep inside some thick shell where only he lived. Even the drab prison clothes looked much the same as his day-to-day clothes.
    â€œWhere did you go after eleven or so, Jimmy?”
    â€œSome bars. I told the cops. They don’t believe me. No one says they saw me.”
    â€œDid anyone see you who knew you?”
    â€œNo one knows me much. I drink in a booth. A lot of bars.”
    â€œNo regular tavern?”
    â€œNo. Except where I work sweeping. I don’t go to those.”
    â€œTell me the bars,” I said.
    â€œFugazy’s Tavern, Packy’s Pub, the Tugboat. The cops been there already.”
    â€œYou never know when you’ll get lucky,” I said. “You saw no one else at the pawn shop that night?”
    â€œThe girl come in, Danielle. With her kid, that Charlie Burgos. Mr. Marais tossed them out before I left.”
    â€œWhat did they want?”
    â€œI don’t know. They was always bugging Mr. Marais. No good punk kids. No respect. Too damned weak, Mr. Marais.”
    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.
    â€œThis 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 ain’t like most of them. French, too, but he treats me good. That Buddha he give me, free, so when he’s dead I pray to it, burn incense. For him. He’ll be okay. He was my friend.”
    What did it mean? I’ve seen killers cry for their victims before. Too many times, the murderous moment gone. I’ve even seen them forget who did the killing. Yet, Eugene Marais had been Jimmy Sung’s friend, and where was a motive for murder?
    â€œYou’ve got friends, Jimmy. Li Marais. Claude. The widow. Me, I hope. Marie Schmidt. She’s a strong woman, I think.”
    â€œA drunk. Like me,” Jimmy Sung said, the moment of tears past. “She got no one else but me. A Chink sweeps floors.”
    â€œShe’s waiting for you,” I said.
    â€œYeh, Marie’s okay.”
    â€œShe wasn’t there when you got home that night? What time?”
    â€œWho knows. By then