“We can’t,” she said. “We can’t…. We can’t.”
She spoke in choking gasps. Her shoulders heaved. She was shivering in the hot darkness as if it were cold. Conn sat up on the edge of the daybed without touching her. He was silent. She began to cry.
“I’m sorry,” she said between sobs. “I’m sorry, Conn.”
“Sure,” he said.
“If we were married,” Mellen said, tears tracing down her face. “We have to wait until we’re married.”
Conn didn’t say anything. He stood and began to straighten out his clothes.
“This is too hard on a man,” he said. “I’ll have to go.”
“No,” Mellen said. She turned from her side onto her back. She seemed unaware of her undress. “Please, Conn.”
“It’s too much,” Conn said. “You want to, I want to. You respond. I respond. You pull back. It’s too much for me.”
Mellen was crying hard, full body crying that exhausted her.
“Conn, please. I can’t. We’re both Catholic. You must understand. I promised God.”
He stared down at her in the half-light. Her breasts spilled out of her brassiere. He had pulled her underpants down. She was naked to him. Her pale thighs entirely vulnerable.
“A man can’t go through this,” Conn said softly. “You’ll have to choose. Me or God.”
He waited for a moment. She was crying too hard to speak. Then he shrugged and turned and picked up his straw hat and walked toward the front door. He was in the den when she called after him in a strangled voice.
“Conn.”
He had his hat on and his hand on the doorknob when she called after him again, her voice shaking.
“I will, Conn. I will.”
In the dark hot den, Conn smiled to himself. He took the straw hat off and set it carefully on the deal coffee table and turned and walked slowly back into the kitchen.
“So it’s me?” Conn said.
She lay as he had left; her, on the couch.
“God forgive me,” she said.
He helped her strip naked on the daybed and then looked at her nakedness as he slowly took off his own clothes and lay down beside her. He explored her thoughtfully. He taught her what he knew, and helped her as she needed it. While they coupled she made so much noise, he wondered if the police would appear. And when it was over and they lay on the narrow daybed, their bodies slippery with sweat, beneath the sacred heart, she pressed her face against his neck and cried, and murmured over and over, “I love you.” Conn lay quietly beside her and rubbed her back softly and smiled and imagined Hadley Winslow.
Conn
Knocko picked Conn up in front of the Brighton Avenue apartment house at quarter to eleven on a bright September morning.
“When I called in, Captain wanted to talk with you. I said you were taking a leak.”
“You’re a fine Irishman, Knocko.”
“Who you fucking this morning?” Knocko said.
“Lovely little Protestant girl,” Conn said. “Named Sheila Hinkley. Husband’s a school principal.”
Knocko put the car in gear, let the clutch out, and eased the car out into traffic.
“Don’t think I ever fucked a Protestant,” he said. “Imagine it’s about the same.”
“Funny, isn’t it,” Conn said. “It’s always about the same, but you always want to try another.”
“So tell me about it,” Knocko said. “For Crissake, I drop you off, pick you up, and cover for you while you’re fucking. At least I should get to hear about it.”
Conn grinned.
“You should get out more, Knocko. Be good for you.”
“Not if Faith caught me,” Knocko said. “Sheila go down on you?”
Conn told him.
Knocko was full of admiration.
“And you’re still fucking Mellen?”
“Sure,” Conn said.
“Man, I was betting against you on that one,” Knocko said. “I told Faith, she wouldn’t believe me.”
“All it takes is patience,” Conn said.
“Well, Conn, darlin’, it’s a tireless worker you are.”
“Every man needs a hobby,” Conn said.
Knocko tapped the siren and drove through a red light at the merge of Brighton and Commonwealth avenues.
“Where we headed?” Conn said.
“Chinatown.”
“The killing in the mah-jongg parlor?”
“Un-huh.”
“Shit,” Conn said. “I hate Chinatown.”
“Good noodles,” Knocko said.
“Yeah, and you can get your shirts done nice. But the fucking Chinamen won’t talk to you and if you chase one he’s into one of those buildings and it’s like chasing a rat through a maze.”
“So, we just let them shoot each other?”
Conn shrugged.
“Might as well,” he said. “We never catch anybody anyway.”
“Hey, put in the eight-hour day, draw the eight-hour pay,” Knocko said. “At least we’re fucking working.”
“I’ve already put in two hard hours,” Conn said.
Knocko grinned.
“It may have been hard, Conn-boy, but I wouldn’t call it working.”
“You would if you did as much of it as I do,” Conn said.
“Nobody does as much of it as you do,” Knocko said.
And he and Conn were both laughing as Knocko pulled in beside a hydrant on Tyler Street, and they got out.
Conn
There were two Chinatowns. There was the one that fronted on the streets, where tourists strolled; and the real one, where the Chinese lived close together. The real one existed in alleys, and passageways behind the restaurants bright with garish dragons, and the export-import businesses with fronts made to look like Asian temples. The Boston police supervised tourist Chinatown. The tongs ran the rest.
The mah-jongg parlor was a narrow building behind the Shanghai Dragon restaurant. It was little more than a shed with unpainted clapboard siding, and no windows. It was lit by a big industrial ceiling fixture. The room was nearly empty at midday when Knocko and Conn walked in. Knocko palmed his badge at the narrow, middle-aged Chinese man sitting on a stool near the door smoking a cigarette.
“You the head Chink?” Knocko said.
The Chinese man wore black pajamas, and a black skullcap over a pigtail. He looked at the two men with eyes as expressionless and flat as two ovals of black jade. Smoke drifted slowly from his nostrils as he exhaled. He said nothing.
“Listen, Moo Goo, a guy got murdered here the other night. What can you tell me about that?” Knocko said.
“No speak,” the Chinese man said.
Conn was looking idly around the room. It was full of unmatched tables and chairs. At two of the tables there were mah-jongg pieces. At one of them a cigarette smoldered in an ashtray as if it had been hastily stubbed out.
“Yeah, sure,” Knocko said comfortably, “none of you fucking speak. Unless of course somebody got some money, wants to buy your fucking sister, huh, Chop-Chop? Then you speak like the fucking queen of England.”
The Chinese man showed nothing. He didn’t move except to smoke his cigarette. Conn put his hand under the edge of one of the mah-jongg tables and tipped it over, scattering the game on the floor.
“Oops,” he said. And smiled at the Chinese man.
Knocko took a small shabby notebook from his shirt pocket and opened it and leafed through it, periodically moistening his huge thumb, until he found what he was looking for.
“Victim was guy named Pieng Wong, alias Joe Wong, alias Jo Jo Wood, male, Chinese, age twenty-three, alleged tong enforcer.”
Conn walked aimlessly about the room, tipped over another table. The Chinese man smoked his cigarette.
“What we hear is his tong sent him around to talk to you ‘cause you weren’t paying the regular fee. And you weren’t paying the regular fee because your tong said you didn’t have to. And Jo Jo said you did have to pay
and somebody from your tong settled the issue by putting a couple of slugs into Jo Jo’s belly. We’d kind of like to know who that was. Whadda you hear, Ching-a-ling?”
“No speak.”
Knocko shook his head and put the notebook back in his shirt pocket. The Chinese man put a fresh cigarette in his mouth and lit it with a kitchen match. He shook the match out, dropped it on the floor, and inhaled a long drag on the cigarette. He was letting the smoke out slowly when Knocko hit him backhanded across the face, and slapped the cigarette out of his mouth. The Chinese man’s expression didn’t change. He reached into his pocket and took out another cigarette.
From a door in the back of the mah-jongg parlor four other Chinese men appeared. They were young, and slim. Three wore the black pajamas and skullcap and pigtail. One of them wore a double-breasted blue pinstripe suit, gleaming black shoes, and a diamond stickpin in his red silk tie.
“Aha,” Conn said. His face brightened as he saw them.
The one in the blue suit said, “My uncle doesn’t speak English.”
“And you do,” Knocko said.
The four men spread out in a loose semicircle.
“I speak your language,” the Blue Suit said. “The language you just spoke to my uncle.”
“You threatening a police officer?” Knocko said.
The Blue Suit smiled. His three companions were expressionless. The uncle had a new cigarette lighted and was smoking, though his lip had begun to puff.
“Perhaps I am,” the Blue Suit said.
“Then let’s see,” Conn said. His eyes were open wide and he smiled. “Let’s get right to the threatening and see if you’re any good, Chinaboy.”
All four men looked at him silently. He walked several steps toward them, holding his coat open. The handle of his holstered service revolver showed, butt forward on the left side of his belt. His voice was pleasant.
“See, the gun’s still in the holster. See how many shots you get off before I get it out.”
“Conn,” Knocko said.
“Fuck ’em, Knocko,” Conn said. “Let’s see which of us is afraid to die.” He spoke again to the Blue Suit. “You crazy, Chinaboy? You as crazy as I am? You want to see? Let’s see. We’ll shoot. I been shooting since you were eating goo goo berries in Shanghai.”
The Blue Suit spoke to Knocko.
“Your friend is not afraid to die?”
There was strain in Knocko’s voice.
“No,” Knocko said. “He ain’t. He don’t give a shit.”
The Blue Suit nodded slowly.
“Fact is,” Knocko said hoarsely, “he don’t give a shit about anything, that I know about.”
The Blue Suit nodded again and glanced at his companions.
“Hard to do business with someone not afraid to die,” the Blue Suit said.
Conn held his coat back with his left hand. He held his right hand, fingers wide and slightly flexed, at waist level. His knees were relaxed, his feet comfortably balanced. He was smiling.
The Old Man, smoking his cigarette, said something in Chinese to the Blue Suit. The Blue Suit replied in Chinese, and the Old Man spoke again. The Blue Suit nodded. Conn shrugged his shoulders once to loosen them, and waited.
“My uncle says there may be another way.”
“Like what?” Knocko said. His voice was tight.
The Blue Suit made a wait gesture with his hand. The Old Man spoke again. The Blue Suit nodded.
“My uncle says that Jo Jo’s tong was trying to extort us. We cannot, of course, allow that.”
“We meaning your tong,” Knocko said. His voice was still gravelly with tension.
The Blue Suit shook his head.
“We are a social club,” he said. “We play mah-jongg.”
“Sure,” Conn said with a grin, “and keep four shooters on the payroll in case somebody cheats.”
“Our young men band together down here,” the Blue Suit said. “The Boston Police Department rarely visits. We try to protect ourselves.”
“So what’s your deal?” Knocko said.
“We could pay you to come by once in a while and look in on us,” the Blue Suit said. “To protect us from Jo Jo’s tong.”
Knocko relaxed visibly. His face widened into a friendly smile.
“Now, by Jesus Christ,” Knocko said. “There’s a thoughtful offer. Conn, don’t you think that’s thoughtful?”
“A darlin’ offer,” Conn said and smiled. He was still looking steadily at the Blue Suit. He still held his coat open, his right hand poised. “Though on the whole, Knocko, I’d just as soon shoot the little yellow bastards.”
“Conn, it’s a good offer, boy. We’ll take it,” Knocko said.
Conn shrugged.
“We’ll take half what Jo Jo wanted. You have any more trouble from his tong, you give me a call. My partner and I will stop in now and then.”
“And the case is closed on the unfortunate passing of Jo Jo?” the Blue Suit said.
“Absolutely,” Knocko said. “Person or persons unknown. No evidence against anyone here.”
“And your partner? Does he have any objection?”
“Conn? No, course not. I told you he don’t give a shit, about anything. Am I right, Conn?”
“Sure,” Conn said.
The Old Man got off his stool and went around behind the counter. He bent over out of sight and after a moment reappeared with a handful of currency. He counted it out in two equal piles onto the countertop.
Knocko counted with him, his lips moving silently. When it was done, Knocko picked up one pile and folded it in half and slid it into his pants pocket. He took the other pile and walked to Conn, and folded it in two and tucked it into Conn’s shirt pocket. Then Knocko backed toward the door. Conn let his coat drop and turned his back on the four Chinese men and walked toward the door after Knocko. As he passed the Old Man, he said, “I thought you ‘no speak.’”
There was no expression on the Old Man’s face.
“I listen,” he said.
Conn grinned as he left the mah-jongg parlor.
Conn
They were walking on the beach at the foot of K Street. He was still on shift, but she had called him in tears and said she had to see him. Her face was still tear streaked and her voice was shaky as they walked on the sand.
“You haven’t called me in a week,” she said.
“I know, Melly, I’m sorry. I have a heavy caseload right now, and”—he spread his hands—“what can I say, the time got away from me.”
He leaned over to kiss her and she turned her head.
“It’s not been the same since the first time, at my house, when we did it,” she said.
“It’s never the same twice, Mel, but it’s elegant, every time.”
She shook her head.
“It’s like, once you got me,” she said, “you could cross another one off the list, and start looking for the next virgin.”
Conn gazed calmly out at the ocean that moved brightly in the early fall sunlight, the waves coming rhythmically in onto the beach without surcease. They walked well above the linear detritus of seaweed and driftwood that marked the high tide line in the sand. He never had understood why people liked to walk on the beach. The sand made for hard walking as it shifted beneath his footfall. Some of it got in his shoes. When she was through he’d have to take his shoes off and empty them out.
She had begun to cry again as they walked. She made no effort to stop the tears, or to cover her face. The beach was empty. There was no one to see her.
Conn was courteous.
“Should we stop seeing each other, Mel?”
She stopped and turned to him, her face wet, her eyes puffy.
“I missed my period,” she said. Her voice was thick with crying.
Conn nodded gravely. He waited. She didn’t say anything else.
“Have you seen a doctor?”
“Yes.”
Conn waited another moment. Again she didn’t speak.
“Ah,” Conn said finally.
“I couldn’t go to our doctor. I put on my mother’s wedding ring, she never wears it, and went up to Lynn. They said I was pregnant.”
“Yes,” Conn said.
“You have to marry me.”
“Have you thought about an alternative?”
She shook her head violently, her eyes squeezed nearly shut. She wasn’t looking at him now. She was looking down, at the indifferent beach.
“No,” Conn said. “Of course not. Does the judge know?”
She shook her head.
“You have to marry me right away,” she said.
Conn nodded slowly, as if to himself, and shrugged.
“Sure,” he said. “Why not?”
Conn
It was midafternoon, at a speakeasy on Chandler Street where the cops went. Conn and Knocko were drunk at the bar. There were pool tables and a detective from vice was playing pool by himself, stopping occasionally to drink beer from the bottle. The soft click of the balls made most of the noise in the almost empty room.
“I know you almost since you got here,” Knocko was saying. “I been your partner five years now.”
“Seems longer,” Conn said.
Knocko ignored him.
“And I don’t fucking understand you any better than I did when you got off the fucking boat with a brogue like a Kerry fishmonger.”
The vice detective tried to put the seven ball in the corner pocket and missed and swore to himself as if it mattered.
“Nothing to understand,” Conn said.
“You don’t think so,” Knocko said. He drank some whiskey. “You don’t think so. Take the time in Chinatown, in the mah-jongg parlor. You remem’er that.”
Conn nodded.
“We got five Chinks want to give us money to go away, tough Chinks, with guns, and you don’t want the money. You want to shoot it out. You wanna help me unnerstan’ that?”
Conn shrugged.
“I got a wife, and about two hundred kids,” Knocko said. “And you want me to shoot it out with five chop-chops in some fucking mah-jongg parlor. For what? That’s what I don’t get. For fucking what?”
All Our Yesterdays Page 8