F Train

by Richard Hilary Weber

  Back out on the streets, no one knew from nothing, not in any New York Chinese neighborhood. With scarcely a glance at the cropped photo, heads started shaking all over again, as time after time shoulders shrugged, and work resumed at once. A thousand sphinxes without a riddle to hide.

  Marty Keane’s work with his list was no easier, local thugs who years before associated with convicted felon Lee Ho Fook. Remarkable really, how many people managed to die, migrate elsewhere, change their names. Others had grown incurably insane, drug-addicted, AIDS-crippled, in and out of Bellevue and light years removed from reality and memory. Several simply vanished, and those left on the list who were still living in New York, and who could be found and brought in for questioning, proved as cooperative as Frank Murphy’s waiters, cooks, and bartenders, the head shakers and shoulder shruggers.

  Hour after hour, everyone seemed useless.

  The investigation appeared stuck on the sad double notes of Ella Mae Bontemps and an untraceable Chinese man named Xi, a Chinese name about as good a lead in New York as a tip on some guy named Joe something-or-other or a woman called Mary what’s-her-face. Anonymous spite calls continued, mostly from vengeance seekers hoping to shaft an object of hate or pay back a wrongdoer or make life miserable for a dumped lover.

  9:20 A.M.

  When a different kind of call came into Flo’s office, intern Krish Krishnaswami had the luck to handle it.

  “He sounded Russian,” Krish said.

  “You sure?” said Flo.

  “Maybe not a hundred percent, the guy whispered fast. Said there’s a Chinese businessman named Xi, works as headwaiter at an Asian place called the Dragonfly. But he actually owns the place. In Carroll Gardens, here in Brooklyn. Xi is an illegal, runs dealers, shylocks, he’s got a whole network of prostitutes. Quick with his fists. And sometimes…he may be armed.”

  “Swell combination,” Frank said. “Russian knows him and wants to screw him. People smuggling. Rich honcho named Xi. I’ve never been to the Dragonfly. Mostly in Carroll Gardens, you got Italian places. Murals of Mount Etna erupting. Gondolas in Venice. Red sauce country all the years I’ve been going there since I was a kid. Now it’s kind of like the United Nations. The beauty of diversity.”

  “And Davidov, Reilly, and Marie Priester,” Flo said. “They all got on the train at Carroll Street. Krish, find out if the Dragonfly does a dim sum early lunch, mid-morning. If they do, book a table for three, in the name of Kelly. And Marty, get the block surrounded. Let’s pray it’s a sometime when he’s not armed.”

  10:38 A.M.

  Flo regarded the English version of the dim sum menu in the window of the Dragonfly restaurant.

  “Just look like you’re starving, Frank.”

  “Easy. Check those dumplings, we could work our way through every dish they got here. Class Asian and who’d have guessed, right in Carroll Gardens.”

  While Flo, Frank, and Marty Keane were outside examining the lengthy bill of fare, waiting right around the corners at either end of the block were four unmarked cars, each with four plainclothes officers.

  The three homicide detectives entered the cocktail lounge. So far, they were the only customers between breakfast and lunch. The room was quiet, except for the soft sounds of piped-in music, vaguely Asian. Behind the bar, between a pair of carved red dragons, hung a photograph of the president of the United States shaking hands with the president of the People’s Republic of China.

  A man was polishing bar glasses. The only server in sight, he was in his mid-thirties, about six feet tall, sinewy, expressionless. He worked with deliberation, and when he saw three early guests approaching, he raised his eyes questioningly. “Here for dim sum?”

  “Yeah,” said Frank. “We called. Kelly.”

  “We’re ready to start,” the glass polisher said. “Sit where you like. It’ll take a couple of minutes.”

  “We can wait,” Frank said. “But not too long. I’m starved.”

  “No, not too long,” the tall man said, coming out from behind the bar.

  Flo studied the man’s face. To her practiced eye, he appeared to resemble no one more closely than Lee Ho Fook. She was certain Frank and Marty were reaching the same conclusion, when Frank turned to her and she nodded.

  “Tell me something,” Frank said to the man. From his jacket pocket, Frank withdrew and unfolded the picture of Lee Ho Fook. He extended the photograph. “You ever see this guy?” he said, his stone-steady finger tapping the subject’s pictured face.

  The man leaned forward. He shot a glance at the photo and ran for the door.

  He was out in the street, the sidewalk slick with ice, and he was in his shirtsleeves, running and sliding, heading in the direction of the F train station at Carroll Street, just as Frank was out the door right behind him.

  “Don’t run!” Frank shouted. “Stop. You’re under arrest, Lee.”

  Flo was on her phone, signaling police vehicles at both ends of the block. Cars appeared at once and plainclothes officers were out on the pavement, weapons drawn, but unable to fire, because they faced each other and the three homicide detectives now in the street outside the Dragonfly.

  Frank called out again, “Lee, stop!”

  And it was stop or get crushed between police vehicles converging from each end of the block, cars on the sidewalks and in the street, a wall of heavy metal slowly squeezing in on their target. Nowhere to run, nowhere to hide. Trapped in a relentless vise, as bad as getting trapped in a subway tunnel.

  Lee Ho Fook slowed. He turned to face Frank.

  “Drop to your knees, Lee. Hands on head.”

  As Lee Ho Fook’s knees hit the sidewalk, two cops grabbed him and threw him down. For the few seconds it took to accomplish this, the prisoner looked up at Flo, his eyes as lacking in expression as a pair of onyx marbles. He lay with his cheek pressed to the icy pavement, hands cuffed behind his back, his body shaking violently, the back of his neck clamped in the tight grip of Frank’s huge hands.

  10:50 A.M.

  As on the night seven bodies were first found, Detective Sergeant Marty Keane sat in the back of an unmarked police car with his digital recorder, this time registering not the observations of a retired FBI special agent, first witness to the aftermath of a massacre, but the rantings of an uncooperative prisoner, and his witnesses were Flo Ott in the front seat and Frank Murphy on the other side of Lee Ho Fook.

  “You have the right to remain silent,” Flo recited the obligatory warning. “You have the right to a—”

  “What’s this shit you giving me?”

  “Your Miranda rights.”

  “Miranda, my ass. You’re gonna screw me.”

  “Mr. Lee,” Flo said, “why didn’t you let all those people on the F train live?”

  “Bullshit. You’ll torture me. You’ll get me to say anything you want. None of this means a fucking thing.”

  “How did you get back in this country?” she said.

  “I took a fucking plane. You think I walked back from China? I got business here.”

  “And all those people on the F train? Did everyone have to die for your business?”

  “They died humanely, from what I hear.”

  “Humanely?”

  “Gas, right? So they felt nothing. I saw the newspaper pictures, you could see that in the pictures. Peaceful.”

  “And what did you feel? You feel anything, killing all those people?”

  “Fuck you, lady.”

  And on this determined note ended the first recorded interrogation of mass murder suspect Lee Ho Fook, aka Mr. Xi.

  11:55 A.M.

  Flo returned to her office straight after the hastily organized special arraignment of Lee Ho Fook—alias Wong Xi Ze—before New York Criminal Court Judge John P. Ward.

  At her desk, she closed her eyes, hoping for a few moments rest, when her cellphone buzzed. At the other end, retired FBI special agent Raymond O’Hara.

  “Congratulations, Lieutenant. Who could’ve gu
essed?”

  “You heard?”

  “Just on the news. The mayor and the police commissioner announced it. The mayor did all the talking, he said it was an illegal named Zi Wong or some such.”

  “That’s sort of one of his names.”

  “Big feather in your cap.”

  “The mayor mentioned us?”

  “No, not really. He congratulated the police commissioner. And he praised that asshole shrink who was standing right next to him, great big grins on them like this was all their personal victory. And the mayor congratulated himself for appointing the commissioner and the shrink.”

  “Thanks, Raymond. And don’t worry, I haven’t forgotten.”

  “Forgotten what?”

  “The lunch I still owe you.”

  12:30 P.M.

  An interrogation room in the maximum security block at the Metropolitan Detention Center for Men.

  The furnishings, a table and two chairs.

  On the opposite side of a two-way mirror, homicide detective Sergeant Frank Murphy sat with a technician working the video recording system.

  Lee Ho Fook leaned back in a chair, his wrists and ankles shackled, a steel chain linking the restraints. He wore a prison regulation green jumpsuit and sneakers, no laces.

  Flo Ott sat facing the prisoner, an armed guard positioned behind her in a corner by the door. Two guards remained right outside the door, set to rush in and subdue the prisoner at a signal from Frank Murphy or a shout from Flo.

  Although the room was heated, Flo felt the cold, even a hint of damp rolling in from the harbor, as if the winter morning fog enshrouding New York infiltrated the prison itself.

  Despite the chill, Xi Ze Wong/Lee Ho Fook perspired, the armpits of his correctional facility jumpsuit dark with sweat. Otherwise, he appeared oddly satisfied, exuding a haughty air, not at all the usual demeanor of a homicide prisoner, so familiar to Flo, but more like the behavior of an accomplished businessman, more like an investment banker accused of insider trading or a politician caught on the take.

  On the wrist of the prisoner’s left hand was a slim tattoo in blue and red, a small band of miniature dragons linked by their tails and the flames they exhaled.

  He noticed Flo looking at his tattoo.

  LEE HO FOOK: You like them? (He held out his left hand, the restraining chains rattling against the metal table.) My dragons. Five of them. Some of the richest men in China wear these. A brotherhood of the best. They like me. I serve my country. The dragons mean strength, luck, wisdom, courage, guile. Damn, this place stinks of mold. No Waldorf-Astoria in here. What’s going down this time?

  DETECTIVE LIEUTENANT FLORENCE OTT: You need a new scriptwriter, Lee.

  LHF: I write my own.

  FO: That’s what I mean. I had a little talk with your former attorney, Robert Keating.

  LHF: Robert J. Keating. Yes, he was my man, good old Mr. Gold. (Fook laughed.) Colorful guy, Bobby. Got to love him.

  FO: He can be present, if you wish. You know you have that right. He can be here, too.

  LHF: Good on Bobby. Hate to screw him out of his fee, but it doesn’t mean shit anymore, not for me. Not much he can do now. You’re going to lynch me anyway, one way or the other. Tell me something, Miss Lieutenant Florence Ott, tell me what it’s like, that room where they give me the injection. That great big shot in the arm. It’s in the arm, isn’t it, my goodbye forever kiss-off? Or do they stick it in my bare ass, somewhere nice and humiliating?

  FO: You haven’t even been tried yet. Your lawyer is highly competent, you should retain him again.

  LHF: For what? Like it’ll make a difference? Make you look like you all play fair and square? Tell me something…c’mon, Miss Lieutenant Ott, what am I facing now? What’s it like?

  FO: It’s a drip feed into your arm. Two drip feeds, actually, one in each arm.

  LHF: You’ve seen all this?

  FO: Yes, once.

  LHF: And that’s all there is to it? You know, in China you get shot. Really, true fact. Pop. One round, right in the back of the head. Very efficient. Very fast. And your family gets sent a bill for the bullet. Sometimes, especially if you’ve been a celebrity bad guy and they want you to set a good example, they let you have it in a stadium in front of a big crowd. With all these other guys caught for the same kind of stuff. And women, too. All lined up, and you’re down on your knees, hands cuffed behind your back, a sign around your neck with your name and crime written on it. No trouble filling stadium seats that day. Thousands of people there, screaming and applauding. I’ve seen it, several times. They have an anti-murder day. Anti-faggots day. Anti-porno day. Anti-embezzlement day, that’s a very popular crime right now. Lots of money in Chinese cities these days, very tempting, especially at the banks. Even I’ve been ripped off by employees. (He laughed.) C’mon, Miss Lieutenant, tell me what’s it like over here in this country. In that last place, the room where they’ll stick it to me.

  FO: You really want to know?

  LHF: Why do you think I’m asking?

  FO: It’s in a room like a hospital room, not a stadium.

  LHF: How nice, very considerate. Like a surgery theater? With windows all around the top, maybe, where invited guests can come and watch you shake and choke to death. Doctors get to take notes? Very humane, totally civilized, not like China. I approve. (He laughed, again.) And no bill sent to my family.

  FO: Are you resigned to that fate? Maybe you and I can talk seriously now.

  LHF: (Silence.)

  FO: Why did you do it?

  LHF: (Silence.)

  FO: Forensics found sarin traces in your apartment bathroom. It doesn’t wash away that easily.

  LHF: (Silence.)

  FO: And you know, I was just thinking. You met John James Reilly. You met Marie Priester. Maybe you met her boss, too, from the law firm. You knew these people, maybe not well, but you knew them. There’s that picture of the three of you.

  LHF: Yeah, that phony immigration lawyer and his spade bimbo, two-timing around.

  FO: Phony?

  LHF: (Silence. Smile.)

  FO: Why phony?

  LHF: Don’t bullshit me, Miss Lieutenant. You know better than I do.

  FO: Did Sid Davidov know about him? You certainly knew Sidney R. Davidov, too.

  LHF: (Derisive laughter. Silence. Smile.)

  FO: You think Davidov would’ve been on that train, if he’d known exactly what you claim you knew about Reilly? He could have known, couldn’t he? Sid was just as smart as you.

  LHF: Smart as me? Bullshit. Let’s put it this way, Miss Lieutenant, he’s dead. I’m alive. Smart as me? C’mon, gimme a break.

  FO: Yes, you’re alive. And you’re in jail. That’s how smart you are.

  LHF: (Silence.)

  FO: Amazing, isn’t it, when you think about it, you actually knew three of the seven people killed on the F train. I wonder how many other people knew any three of those seven victims.

  LHF: (Shrug.) I don’t go wondering about stuff, I’m no philosopher. Maybe you ought to get yourself a tea leaves reader.

  FO: And then there are the dead people you probably didn’t know, four innocent people all gone. And for what reason?

  LHF: (Silence.)

  FO: No regrets?

  LHF: (After a long sigh, after staring up at the ceiling for several moments.) Regrets? You got be kidding. Me? I regret you. I regret your partners. I regret that phony immigration lawyer, Reilly, that prick. And certainly that asshole Sid. I regret fucking everything. Every last word, every piece of shit act, thought, person, place, time. You name it, Miss Lieutenant. All of it, nothing but bullshit. You better believe I got regrets. I’m sorry about this. (He raised his hands and shook the chains, and the guard in the corner rushed over, grabbing his arms to restrain him.) I’m not going anywhere, don’t worry about me. I really love this shithole. And I want a lawyer now. No, not Bobby Keating, not this time. I got somebody else I want to call.

  FO: It’s your right. />
  LHF: I’m a Chinese citizen. A successful businessman. I got a right to call my ambassador or at least the consul here in New York. They’ll get a good lawyer for me. They’ll get me the hell out of here.

  FO: They can get you a lawyer. But no judge will give you bail, Lee. Not you, not for mass murder. And that’s the charge.

  LHF: Bullshit. It’s cold in this dump. Can’t we get some heat in here?

  Flo shook her head, thoroughly disgusted, as the situation, until now worse than murky, was slowly clarifying in spite of Lee Ho Fook’s best efforts to cloud or dismiss the facts. She was as certain that he had accomplices—in surveillance, in carrying and mixing chemicals, in flight from their crime—as she was uncertain that she would ever know any of this for sure.

  FO: How did you do it, Lee? How did you get those ingredients there?

  LHF: (Sigh.) You know what would hit the spot right now, Miss Lieutenant? A good Cuban cigar.

  FO: No smoking in here.

  LHF: No nothing in here.

  FO: Who was with you? How many people?

  LHF: How about…I’m just a lone wolf, okay. Like that prick Reilly. Rogues with balls.

  FO: What about Reilly? What do you know?

  LHF: Ask his employer. They know everything, total awareness, right? They’re your people, not mine. Just don’t ask me why you people do the shit you do. How the hell would I know? I’ve said enough already. That’s it, no more. I’m finished. I don’t have to talk, not now, not ever.

  1:40 P.M.

  “The photos…”

  Flo Ott laid out the clandestine snapshots of John James Reilly on the desk in District Attorney Cecil King’s office.

  “These weren’t taken entirely in secret,” Flo said. “At least one of the photos’ subjects—Xi Ze Wong, our old friend Lee Ho Fook—may have been aware. Probably was. The tail was being tailed, that’s my take. A Chinese agent documented the American agent, and someone—Fook?—mailed the photos to Reilly to scare him away.”