Compromised (10 page)

The rest of the summer seemed to drag on and on, so much so that Frank was not disappointed when his mother reminded him that he’d be back at school in just a few days.
But Jack wouldn’t be headed back with the rest of them.He was still healing.

His physical wounds were coming along nicely, though, and the doctors felt that he’d eventually be able to overcome the limp that he’d developed as a result of the beatings. He was wearing temporary caps over his two cracked incisors until the permanent ones were ready. The temporaries were crudely fashioned and off-color, which made him look bucktoothed.

Jack scarcely looked at Frank when he came over to visit. He was staring at
Captain Nice
on the family’s portable TV. It was a show about
a police department chemist who discovered a liquid that would transform him into a superhero.

“Hey, Jack,” Frank said, greeting his friend in a voice that was still tenuous and laden with guilt.

Jack raised his hand like a welcome flag without taking his eyes from the screen.

“Okay if I watch with you?”

“Uh-huh,” he replied.

Jack’s mother watched her son greet Frank. Her lips were pressed tightly together, and her forehead was wrinkled with worry. She forced a smile at Frank, encouraging him to sit down. “Can I get you boys anything?”

Jack shook his head.

“No, thanks, Mrs. Burns,” Frank replied. He noticed a tear on her cheek as she left the room. He sighed as he sat down next to Jack on the old sofa. He’d visited five times since Jack had gotten home from the hospital but still didn’t know what to say to his friend. It was as if he didn’t know him anymore.

They watched the show in silence for a few minutes until the commercial break. Jack was still facing away when Frank put his hand on his shoulder.

Jack jumped, and let out a gasp.

“Hey, you okay?”

He nodded after a moment.

“Hey, why won’t you look at me, Jack?”

Jack closed his mouth to hide his oversized teeth and reluctantly faced his friend. He shrugged, then turned back to the TV just as the program returned. On the screen, the chemist was in his lab, mixing liquids of various colors. “You think that stuff is real?” he asked.

“What, that potion stuff?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Nah. I don’t think so. It’s just a hokey TV show.”

“I wish it were real.”

“I wish I could dunk a basketball,” Frank said, “but that isn’t going to make it happen.”

They watched as the chemist mixed the final ingredients together and drank down the contents of the large test tube. Within a moment he had transformed into Captain Nice.

“Wish I had that stuff,” Jack said in a disheartened voice.

“How come?”

He finally turned to Frank. “Haven’t you ever wanted to be someone else, someone better than the person you are? You know what I mean, someone bigger than life.”

“I guess.” Frank said, happy that Jack was finally opening up. “I used to want to be Superman, but . . . you know that’s only kid stuff.”

“Wish I could’ve turned into Superman when those two guys . . .” Jack closed his eyes and shuddered. He pressed a hand against his stomach and came close to dry heaving.

“Hey, you all right? Want some water or something?” Frank could see pinpoints of sweat break out across Jack’s upper lip. “Should I call your mom?”

Jack shook his head. “No,” he whispered. “Don’t call her—you’ll only make her upset. I’ll be okay.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah.”

“Hey, what’s going on with you, anyway?”

“You fucking dope!” Jack’s whisper came at Frank with the impact of a punch. “You don’t have any idea what they did to me, do you? No idea.”

“No,” Frank said with remorse. “No one will tell me.”

Jack was trembling as he spoke. “They did stuff to me, real bad stuff. They-they hurt me real bad.” He started to cry, then wiped away his tears and looked toward the kitchen to make sure that his mother was out of earshot. His voice trembled. “Real bad.”

Frank studied Jack’s face and finally felt the full impact of the emotional pain he was suffering. “But you’re healing.”

“No. I’m not.”

“But the doctors said . . .”

“Not the regular docs—the shrinks. They say I’m broken.”

Frank Chalice was maturing quickly, but there was still much that he didn’t understand about life and wickedness. “Broken? What does that even mean?”

“I overheard the shrink telling my mom. He said I might never get completely better. He said I may have to go to some special kind of school for slow kids.”

“What kind of school?” Frank asked, skeptical of what he’d heard.

“Fucking retard school, Frank. That’s how screwed up they say I am.”

Frank was enraged. “What the hell did those bastards do to you, Jack?”

Jack turned away. “Like I said. They hurt me. They hurt me really bad.”

“You know they’ll catch those two douchebags.”

“I hope they do. I hope they lock their asses up for good so that what happened to me doesn’t happen to anyone else.” He buried his head in his hands momentarily. “But what’s been done to me has been done, and there ain’t no changing it. I want to go back to that day and start it all over again, but there isn’t going to be a do-over.”

“No, but you’ll get over it. You’re Jack-O. You’re one of us.”

“Was, Frank. Was. I’m not the same guy anymore.”

There was such despair and finality in Jack’s voice that Frank felt as if a weight was pressing against his chest, and he suddenly found it difficult to breathe. He had just gotten there and didn’t want to leave abruptly, but he urgently needed a moment and didn’t know what to do. Feeling trapped, he looked around the small apartment in desperation. “I’ve got to use the john,” he announced, then stood up. “Be right back.”

Taking big steps, he quickly reached the bathroom and shut the door. After switching on the light, he pressed the stopper into the drain and filled the sink with cold water. He splashed it on his face, getting his hair and T-shirt wet in the process. Looking at his dripping face in the mirror, he thought,
Jesus. What am I going to do? I just don’t know what to say to him anymore.

Taking a deep breath, he turned to the towel rack, and that’s when he saw it, a package of adult diapers. He stared at it and read some of the printed matter on the package: Small: Waist Sizes 28–32.
What the?
He was in uncharted waters, confused and shaken by the discovery. It took a moment for him to understand. He did so by piecing together fragments of stories he’d heard from some of the older boys, stories he viewed as adolescent banter, stories kids made up to appear more experienced and sophisticated than they really were. Nonetheless the pieces slowly fell into place.

“Oh my God.” The blood drained from his face, and his skin turned to ice. He steadied himself by using his two hands to brace his body against the tiled bathroom wall. “Oh my God,” he repeated, and took a few deep breaths to calm himself. He began to feel lightheaded and quickly flipped down the toilet seat. He sat down and put his head between his legs so that he wouldn’t pass out.

Lido’s dish was empty.

Ma’s eyes went wide when she realized that he had finished the huge portion she had served him. “I can’t believe that story didn’t kill your appetite.”

“No, it didn’t, and actually, I can’t think of much that does. I’m embarrassed to ask, but is there any more?”

“God bless you, Gus Lido, you’ve got a real man’s appetite.” She walked to the stove and lit one of the burners. “I’ll heat some more up for you. Some story, huh?”

He rubbed his eyes. “I don’t know if it’s the story that has me rattled or if I’m just brain-dead from exhaustion.”

“You’re brain-dead from stress. Are you sorry you didn’t marry a nice demure girl, someone who’s into macramé and crocheting?”

He rolled his eyes. “Bad time to ask, because at this moment . . .”

“Having second thoughts, are you?”

“I’m trying to figure out how this information might help the case, but there’s just so much I don’t know. I mean, how could a case this old have any bearing on a current sexual assault?”

Ma shrugged. “That’s your job, not mine. My job is keeping you mentally and physically healthy until my lunatic daughter comes home.”

“You know, come to think of it . . .” He paused, then looked at her with a guilty expression. “I shouldn’t be discussing my case with you.”

“Get real,” she barked. “This is my daughter’s life we’re talking about. So forget the bullshit privacy protocol and tell me what you’re thinking.”

“Yeah. I guess,” he replied reluctantly. “I mean, under the circumstances.”

“So what were you going to say?”

“Burns is sort of damaged goods. He has a history of being in and out of psychiatric facilities. Works as a handyman because he can’t or won’t take steady employment . . .”

“So you’re thinking he might be a suspect?”

Lido shrugged. “I don’t know. I don’t peg him as a predator. Besides, why would he kill his own daughter? I just don’t see it.”

“But you’re going to look a little deeper?”

“Yeah. I’m going to look a little deeper. Just to be sure.”

A man was lying on his side with a teal snake wrapped around his arm, a tattoo nearing completion.

The tattoo artist was not a young man. He looked up, adjusted his glasses, and grinned when Haruki entered his shop in lower Manhattan.
“Ah. Haruki-san,”
he cheered. The buzzing of the tattoo pen stopped as he stood up and greeted the visitor. “How long has it been?”

“Too long, Tiru-san. Much too long.” Haruki patted his friend on the back before taking a moment to admire his work. “I see reptiles and dragons are still keeping you busy.”

Tiru clasped his hands together. “Yes. Thank the gods.” He turned to his customer. “Ryo-san, this is my friend Haruki. He’s an old customer of mine from back in Kyoto.”

Sitting up, Ryo said, “Let me see Tiru’s work.”

Haruki obediently unzipped his jacket and unbuttoned his shirt. He had three-quarter-sleeve tattoos on both of his arms. The ink began on his chest and ran to his forearms—there was a bright orange tiger on his right arm and a carp on his left. He turned to reveal an onyx and jade fire-breathing dragon that filled the entire expanse of his back.

“I’m envious,” Ryo said. “The tiger is far more powerful than the snake.”

“But less cunning,” Haruki rebutted. “And women . . . they like the snake,” he added with a sly grin.

“But the work on your back . . . it’s so impressive.” He picked up his smartphone. “May I take a picture for my reference?”

Haruki nodded and faced away so that Ryo could take a picture of the tattoo.

“Thank you.” Ryo put the phone down and turned to Tiru. “Finish. Please. I’m eager to see my tattoo completed.”

Tiru signaled to the young woman behind the front counter, who smiled and bowed dutifully. “Ryo, I know you’re in a hurry to see the work finished, but please enjoy a cold beer. My compliments. My assistant will bring you a can of Asahi Super Dry. Enjoy, please, while I take a short break to catch up with an old friend.”

Ryo nodded as Haruki and Tiru headed off. Tiru pushed aside a curtain of slender bamboo stalks that led to a back room. “You look well, Haruki-san. It’s good to see that you’re thriving in Kyoto town. What brings you back to New York?”

“Tadashi’s killer still roams free. I can’t live with that hanging over me. It’s been more than a month, and the police haven’t arrested anyone.”

“I see. Still, it was not a good idea for you to come to my shop in person. Many of my customers are
ninkyō dantai
. You could be recognized, and you know there is no honor among thieves.”

“The yakuza is everywhere. I’ve learned to live with that.”

“But here, Haruki-san, a Japanese policeman like you may not be safe.”

“I accept this risk.” He opened one of Tiru’s sketchbooks and looked at the drawings. “Can you help me? The New York police are not even close to an arrest, and the longer it takes, the colder the trail grows.”

“Of course I will help, but I am an old man and I do my utmost to stay on the outside of
ninkyō dantai
matters. Your family name is still a trigger for the yakuza. Asking questions about your brother might raise awareness that you are back in New York, and once the word is out . . .”

“I’d rather take that risk than die with the dishonor of knowing I did nothing to avenge my brother’s death. Please, Tiru. Please do what you can.”

Tiru bowed his head. “As you wish, Haruki-san. It shall be done.”

Not twenty feet away, Ryo studied the photo he’d taken of the tattoo on Haruki’s back and attached it to a message that he sent to his partner.

“Where were you?”

It was late evening when Harry returned to the hotel room. He dropped his backpack on the floor and shut the door. “Visiting an old friend. You said you needed to spend time doing research on the computer.”

“I just finished. I made a list of all the cases Yana and I worked together over the last year. I’m going through them one by one to see who might have wanted to take a shot at us.”

“And what did you find?”

“A couple of cases might be worth digging into—one in particular.”

He pulled up a chair. “Show me what you found,” he said with interest.

“Eduardo Sanchez. We collared him for the murder of a rival New York street gang member. Three-time loser—he was tried and sentenced to life imprisonment.”

“How does he hurt you from behind bars?”

“I remember both Eduardo and his brother, Rodrigo, being pretty menacing characters. They did their best to frighten the jury with intimidating expressions and terrifying outbursts . . . you get the picture. They showed no great love for either your brother or me.”