The Usual Santas

by Peter Lovesey

  It was all he could do to keep from breaking into a run, to start screaming at the moonless black night.

  When he got to Canal he veered left toward the bustling heart of Chinatown. He found a sidewalk payphone near the park at Forsyth. The 911 operator directed his call to the Chinatown precinct.

  What is your emergency?

  There’s a man bleeding on the ground in Mechanics Alley, under the Manhattan Bridge. He knew they’d start tracking his call.

  Yes, sir, can you tell me where you’re calling from? Your name, sir?

  Could be a white man. He looked hurt bad.

  What’s wrong with him? Sir?

  In Mechanics Alley, near Market Street

  Market Street, right, and what’s wrong with him?

  He’s laying there in the alley, next to a blue car. Looks like he’s dying.

  Mak was imagining the wail of sirens as he hung up. He crossed Canal, made his way to Bayard.

  Back inside his apartment, Mak poured himself a glass of Remy and cracked open the window. The cold night air was invigorating, the brutal gusts somehow keeping him in touch with all that had happened.

  Mak pulled out the contents of Doe Jai’s wallet. He took a sip of the Remy before sifting through the assorted cards. The brandy was to calm him, not to knock him out. It was to help balance the yang of his hate. He’d planned to stay awake this night anyway, like it was just another overnight shift.

  He played the cards on the cheap folding tray in the kitchen space.

  The skinny wallet gave up a twenty dollar prepaid telephone calling card and creased flyer advertising in Chinese for leng siu jeer—sweet and pretty young ladies. There was a pocket calendar from the Global China Bank and a Visa credit card issued by First Abacus Trust. Stuck to the credit card was an old Lotto ticket. Knife Boy’s luck just took a turn for the worse, thought Mak. The last item he touched was the driver’s license.

  The New York State Driver License featured a color photo of Doe Jai. The date of birth was about right, making him forty-four. Say say, which sounded like double-death in Chinese. The address was down Madison Street, on the far side of Chinatown that used to be Black Dragon’s territory.

  It was Doe Jai, all right, even though the photo looked like an old one.

  But it was him, definitely.

  Did Doe Jai—Tsi Mun—really think it was going to be that easy? Just let the years run by and everyone would forget the stabbing? It was arrogance and carelessness on Doe Jai’s part, Mak figured. He hadn’t even bothered to somehow change his face. How hard would it have been to grow a mustache, a beard or shave his head? Something, anything.

  Fuck him, Mak concluded, taking another hit of the Remy. He turned on his old color TV and kept the volume low, just enough to have some movement and noise in the lonely apartment.

  He put away the cards and the wallet and sat in front of the open window. Occasionally he heard sirens from the distant darkness. Waiting for daybreak, he finished what was left of the bottle of Remy. He wondered what kind of flowers to bring to Pretty Boy’s tombstone when the Ching Ming grave sweeping season rolled around again.

  The next day he bought a Daily News and a New York Post from MayLee’s newsstand and searched for news while he sat at Big Chang’s back table waiting for the congee to cool. There was nothing in the Post, but in the Daily News he found a short paragraph in the Crime File section. It was titled “Manhattan Man Knifed in Robbery” and came after “Park Ave. Hit and Run” and “Pilot Busted in Belting of JFK Customs Agent”:

  A man was attacked during an apparent robbery yesterday evening on a Chinatown street under the Manhattan Bridge. The victim, whose name was not released, was stabbed in the eye by an unknown assailant, police said. There have been no arrests. Anyone with information is asked to call Crime Stoppers at (800)-555-TIPS.

  Mak read the paragraph three times. Back to the wall, he blew at the steam rising from his bowl of congee and dunked in the jow gwai cruller. The sun had broken through the clouds and washed over the red formica tables. He had a few hours before he had to be back at work and could enjoy the afternoon.

  Red Christmas

  by James R. Benn

  James R. Benn is the author of the Billy Boyle World War II mysteries: Billy Boyle, The First Wave, Blood Alone, Evil for Evil, Rag and Bone, A Mortal Terror, Death’s Door, A Blind Goddess, The Rest Is Silence, The White Ghost, and Blue Madonna. The debut, Billy Boyle, was named one of five top mysteries of 2006 by Book Sense and was a Dilys Award nominee. A Blind Goddess was long-listed for the IMPAC Dublin Literary Award, and The Rest Is Silence was a Barry Award nominee. A librarian for many years, Benn lives in Connecticut with his wife, Deborah Mandel.

  December 24, 1953

  Blue Rock, Ohio

  Ethan Shard shuffled through the fresh white snow. Barely an inch, and the temperature already above freezing as the late afternoon sun broke through the fleeing clouds. People were bundled up, thick scarves around their necks, gloves and mittens warming their hands.

  They had no idea.

  The shimmer of snow gave Blue Rock a look of new-found purity, like a penitent woman wearing her white veil over a low-cut dress. The whole town was nothing more than a few stores, a diner, and a cluster of houses surrounded by farmland on the banks of the Muskingum River. Brightly colored lights decorated streetlamps, inviting shoppers to stop at the Ben Franklin five and dime for last minute gifts.

  Shard stomped his boots free of snow on the sidewalk in front of the diner. Time for a homecoming, such as it was.

  “Coffee,” he said, taking a stool at the counter, near the cash register and the rack of candy bars. He was the only customer. A solitary pine—needles already littering the floor—stood in the corner, draped in tinsel and gaudy ornaments.

  “On the house, pal,” the counterman said, pouring Shard a mug. “I’m closing early, so the grill’s shut down. On account of it’s Christmas Eve.”

  “No problem. Hey, is Sully around?”

  “Naw. I bought the place from him a coupla years ago. He’s up in Ashtabula now. You from around here?”

  “I was,” Shard said. “He told me to see him when I got out of the army, said he’d give me a job. I used to work weekends here when I was in high school.”

  “Sorry, buddy, I run the place myself, not that I have a lot to show for it. Blue Rock ain’t exactly a boom town, but you must already know that. You were in the war? Korea?” As if Shard might not have heard of it.

  “Yeah,” Shard said. “Just got out.” It wasn’t a job he’d come looking for; he had plenty of back pay.

  “Must feel good to be home. You got family here?”

  Shard shook his head, sipping at the coffee. Hearing the question out loud, he wondered why he’d come at all. After the army released him from the hospital, he’d made for Ohio without much thought, looking for familiarity, the illusion of a home to return to. “Not anymore.” They were all in the ground.

  “You got no place to go?” The counterman looked like he was ready to offer sympathy, or worse yet, charity.

  “I can go anywhere I want,” Shard said, knowing charity offered on Christmas Eve might sour by morning. His eyes wandered, taking in the pies in a glass case, the soda foundation, candies by the register, the refrigerator stocked with everything from hot dogs to cheese and eggs. Maybe to this guy it didn’t mean much, but to Shard it was heaven.

  “Suit yourself,” the counterman said, topping off Shard’s coffee before turning to clean the grill. Shard added sugar, watching the crystals fall like thick snow, his mind’s eye filling with the swirling Siberian storms that had coated their compound last winter. Hands around the warm cup, he shivered as the memories returned, unbidden and relentless, as vivid as that day one year ago.

  December 24, 1952

  POW Camp 11, N
orth Korea

  Ethan Shard woke from his dream, gasping for breath. Schuman had visited him again. Schuman had been dead for two years.

  To the day.

  Shard nudged Skitter awake, motioning toward the rice paper door of their hut. They rose, hunching against the sloping roof, their heads bowed. Shard stepped over the prone bodies of his hut mates as they groaned and cursed quietly beneath plumes of frosted breath.

  Skitter danced across the twelve-foot room, his feet finding the small bare spaces between bodies, avoiding the straw mats that marked the boundary of each man’s tiny territory. He was small, quick, and wiry enough to move easily through the dark and cramped chamber. He slid the rickety wooden frame open, drawing it shut behind them before the men inside could summon up a complaint about the sharp blast of cold, bleak, biting wind.

  Skitter followed Shard without hesitation, a habit born out of greed and avarice, cemented in terror, horror, and survival. They walked the snow-packed path along the wire, toward the high ground, the crumbling cliff face, and the garbage dump.

  The men stared at what was left of the refuse pile. After being picked clean by guards and prisoners, then scavenged by civilians who trudged up the hill from the village below, there wasn’t much.

  “Hardly the Ginza, Skitter,” Shard said.

  “This whole damn country ain’t worth shit,” Skitter said, squatting on his haunches and intently watching one of the villagers scrounging for firewood. A young woman, obvious even at this distance. Skitter’s eyes lapped her up, not out of lust, but in hopes of keeping the memory of lust alive. Shard sat next to him, lifting his head to the sky, willing the clouds to part and grace his face with winter sunshine. “Now Japan, that was something else. We were kings there, remember?”

  “Yeah,” said Shard. “I remember.” It was what he said every time, reliving their heyday as black market operators, stealing the army blind, getting rich off Uncle Sam. Memories and talk were all the living had left. They spoke their lines like actors, giving it all they had, wondering if the play would ever end.

  “What’s wrong?” Skitter asked, sensing Shard’s unease.

  “I dreamed about Schuman last night,” Shard said, watching the woman plod back to her hooch. “Remember him?”

  “Sure. Died that first winter, didn’t he?” Skitter said.

  “Yep. Christmas Eve. Exactly two years ago.”

  “Weird,” Skitter said, standing and beating his arms against his torso. “What’d he have to say?”

  “I couldn’t understand him, his voice was muffled. Can’t figure out why he’d be in my dreams,” Shard said, rising and dusting off the snow that stuck to his blue quilted POW jacket. He couldn’t bring himself to mention the blood, the bright crimson gash on Schuman’s cheek from where the Red Chinese guard had struck him before he was hauled away. “Can’t stop thinking about him now.”

  “Dreams are bullshit,” Skitter said, staying close to Shard. It was automatic, like taking a piss in the morning. Get up, see what Shard is doing. Keep in his shadow. It had worked so far. “So why we out here, anyway?”

  “There’s a new guy, transferred in from another camp. He knew Coop.”

  “Coop?” Skitter said. “Jeez, I haven’t thought about him for a long time. Poor guy.”

  “Yeah, he deserved better,” Shard said, walking along the cliff edge.

  “Don’t we all,” Skitter said, working to keep up with Shard’s long strides. Back in Japan, Skitter had wanted to be the boss, the brains of their black market operation. But here, deep in North Korea, Skitter had always known his chances would be better in Shard’s shadow. “How’d this guy find you?”

  “Asked around when he was brought in,” Shard said, picking up the pace as he turned up his collar against the cold. “He knew Coop was missing in action and hoped he was here.”

  Coop was a sergeant who’d stayed with his men, discarding his chevrons to disguise his rank and help maintain discipline against the divide and conquer tactics of their captors.

  “That’s a long shot,” Skitter said. “Hey, what’s the hurry?”

  “We got a job to do,” Shard said. “Hauling supplies into the officers’ camp. Let’s go.” He headed to a line of trucks by the camp gate. The officers’ compound was surrounded by barbed wire six feet high. To protect the common soldiers of the working class from the corrupt ruling class officers, according to the political lectures the Reds insisted they attend. A lot of guys liked that. If you had to be a POW, at least you only had to worry about the Commies bossing you around, not your own brass as well. Communication between enlisted men and officers was punishable by execution.

  Shard gave a nod to Horseface as he slipped him four cigarettes, the going rate for a spot on the supply gang. Horseface, a senior guard, was named for his equine looks; big ears, a long nose, and eyes set far apart.

  “So we see Coop’s buddy after this?” Skitter said as he shouldered a sack of soybeans.

  “No,” Shard said. “He’s here. A lieutenant with the Fifth Marines.”

  “Jesus Christ,” Skitter said, walking through the gate under the scrutiny of guards, their bayonets fixed.

  POW officers were housed in a series of dilapidated farmhouses, not much more than mud huts with straw roofs, surrounded by wire. Skitter and Shard carried in burlap bags of soybeans, kidney beans, turnips, sorghum, a sack of onions, and one case of canned meat. An officer in Marine fatigues checked off the items on a list as guards watched for any forbidden communication. When the last of the supplies were in, Horseface ordered the other guards out. He took one of the tins of meat, put it in his pocket, and left.

  “We have three minutes,” the officer said. “I’m Lieutenant John Cooper. You’re the guys who knew Freddie?”

  “Yeah,” Shard said. “Me and Skitter were in his company.”

  “You mean Coop?” Skitter said. “Never got his first name. You related?”

  “Yeah,” he said. “He’s my cousin. I heard he was taken prisoner, but he’s listed as MIA. You were in another camp with him?”

  “I was half-dead with dysentery,” Shard said. “I never saw him. Skitter did.”

  “How was he?” Lieutenant Cooper asked.

  “Not too bad, considering,” Skitter said. “He and Sergeant Kelso had gotten in among the enlisted prisoners, and were trying to organize things. Someone must have spilled the beans. First they came for Kelso and took him away. Then they shot Coop.”

  “You sure?” Cooper asked. “I heard he was alive at some place called the Mining Camp.”

  “He was there all right,” Skitter said. “But that’s where they killed him. Sorry.”

  “Shit,” Cooper muttered, the light of hope gone from his face. “Do you think this Kelso guy talked?”

  “No,” Shard said. Skitter shook his head in agreement. They’d never seen Kelso again. “Not Kelso.”

  “Any idea who did?”

  “Coulda been anyone,” Skitter said. “Guys in his barracks must have known. Hard to say.” He looked around nervously, waiting for Horseface to come in and beat them for fraternizing.

  “You both knew, right?” Cooper said.

  “Hey, watch who you’re accusing,” Skitter said. “Coop was our pal. And Shard was delirious when it happened.”

  “Sorry. You’re certain?” Cooper asked, a hint of desperation in his hooded eyes.

  “Saw the body myself,” Skitter said, walking to the half-open door and peeking outside. “We should go.”

  “Sorry, Lieutenant,” Shard said, his eyes lingering on the supplies stacked on the shelves.

  Soup. A memory of soup came back to him. He’d been sick in that camp when he heard of Coop’s being shot for the crime of hiding his stripes. Skitter had brought him soup, with onions.

  Horseface hurried them out of the enclosure. There was ano
ther job.

  “I always wondered who betrayed Coop,” Shard said, as they climbed into the empty truck.

  “It’s hard to get upset about someone who’s been gone almost three years. Coop missed a lot of suffering,” Skitter said.

  “True,” Shard said. “But he also missed everything good that could happen, after the war. Home and family.”

  Skitter didn’t answer. Things so distant and unattainable were unworthy of comment. If it couldn’t keep him alive today, it had no value. He knew what happened to guys who forgot that. They drifted into apathy. Give-up-itis, the POWs called it.

  Their vehicle stopped in front of the camp warehouse where the Chinese stored their supplies. Horseface pointed to another truck, larger and stacked with food, then to the open warehouse.

  “No stealing,” Horseface warned with a wagging finger. Shard spread his hands and grimaced, as if offended by the warning. Horseface laughed, a good sign.

  Shard and Skitter finished with the heavy crates and began moving sacks of rice and flour, stacking them on pallets. When they couldn’t be seen by the guards, Shard searched for something to steal.

  “No,” Skitter said. “You heard Horseface.”

  “Horseface was only acting tough. He might pat us down, but he’s not going to make a big deal out of it. He selected us, so it would make him look bad if we got caught.” Shard took his time, checking the stores of food. Under the rice sacks he found heavy burlap bags filled with cabbages. He worked a finger into the thin material and pulled, exposing the vegetables. Shard took off his blue cap, ripped leaves off, and stuffed them inside the hat.

  “We need greens,” Shard explained. “Cabbage has vitamins.” Skitter reached up and tucked an errant cabbage leaf under Shard’s cap, shaking his head at the chance his friend was taking.

  They finished unloading and found Horseface and the other guards laughing and smoking, paying them no attention. Horseface told a joke, or so it seemed by the tone of his voice. As Horseface grinned and drew on his cigarette, a look of stunned horror spread across his face. Comrade Yuan rounded the corner, followed by two other senior comrades. Political officers.