Loving Time

“Wow,” April murmured; “must be nice.”

“There’s nothing nice about it. I feel good helping people,” George said importantly.

April played with her chopsticks. Her mother believed George Dong was the ideal candidate for marriage and wanted her to close on the deal soon. She was having trouble working up an interest.

“But then there’s a downside to everything.” George looked at her gravely.

“What’s the downside?” April piped up dutifully.

“The family thought it was such a miracle that their blind zumu could suddenly see without her glasses, they all wanted the surgery.”

April didn’t laugh. She could see how that could be awkward. “How did you manage that situation?”

“Twelve pairs of contact lenses.” Now he laughed.

And now April understood why an American-born Asian like George, who had grown up in Queens and attended Columbia University and Columbia Medical School, would come down to Chinatown to practice medicine. Here, his patients never questioned his fees, didn’t rely on insurance to pay their bills, and thought he was a god.

She laughed, too. “That’s a lot of contact lenses.”

“The disposable kind.”

“Ah. Makes a difference.”

“Indeed it does.”

He fell silent as April poured the tea. It was the right kind, with the leaves floating around in the pot. George watched her.

“Can you cook as well as you pour?”

April moved one of the tiny cups to his side of the table. Her father was a chef. George had to know that. “I know how,” she said, raising her eyes to look at him directly. She didn’t have a whole lot of time to hang around the house chopping, though.

“I like a woman who can cook.”

“And has curly hair. Any particular color?”

George flushed. “So you know,” he said.

April nodded. It was a common police technique to make the person on the other side of the table think you already have the whole story even when you don’t have a clue. The waitress deposited some metal serving dishes on the table and removed their covers. On the one closest to her, wrinkled gray sea slugs and smooth white squid lazed around in brown oyster sauce. April repressed a shudder.

“My mother told your mother, right?” George asked.

Again April nodded. George shrugged and immediately launched into the story of the lost love who’d broken his heart. A girl with curly yellow hair from Philadelphia who played the violin and was a Catholic. Apparently the affair had gone on for a long time although neither family approved. Religion was the issue with his. Anyway, by the time they both graduated from medical school, the girl had left him for an Indian anesthetist. Seemed pretty clear to April that George would enjoy never getting over it for the rest of his life.

“What about you?” he asked.

“What about me?” April hid a sea slug under a piece of lettuce on her plate and delicately picked up a piece of lemon chicken.

“You’re very old. Why aren’t you married?”

April was twenty-nine. She raised the piece of lemon chicken to her mouth and held it there, perfectly balanced in the chopsticks, while she delicately took a tiny bite. Twenty-nine was not so old, certainly not very old. Then she took another bite and another until there was nothing left. She was trying to think of something to say that would not damage either George or herself. Finally she put the chopsticks down and answered.

“Heaven does not speak, but the four seasons proceed on their course,” she murmured.

“No kidding. That bad.” George propped a tweed elbow on the table to support his chin while he gazed at her with interest. “I think we may have something going here. What do you think?”

April dabbed her lips with the stiff white napkin. She did not want to tell another lie. So she poured another cup of tea and looked remote.

twenty

At four P.M. on the second day of the Raymond Cowles case all the phones were ringing at once. Some of the second tour was hanging around chewing the fat, ignoring the tinkling bells. The third tour was half in, half out. Mike Sanchez wandered into the squad room looking queasy.

As he sank into his chair at the desk next to April’s, she leaned across the notes she’d been reviewing and wrinkled her nose to sniff at him.

“What’s the matter?” he demanded.

April closed her eyes, trying to identify the odd odor that clung to his leather jacket and the front of his shirt. It was a familiar scent, but one she had never before associated with him. In her mind’s eye she saw gold and red, coins and ribbons, knew what it was. She opened her eyes. Got it.

Mike was frowning at her. “I smell or something?”

“Just a scientific experiment,” she murmured.

“Oh, yeah?” Now he was sniffing at his armpits. “What?”

“I told you. I was just trying to figure something out.”

“I never tell who I’ve been with. It’s nobody’s business.”

“What are you talking about? You don’t have to tell me. I know where you’ve been, so I know who you’ve been with.”

“Oh, yeah? Where and who?”

“Well, could be one of two places.” She ticked them off. “You’ve either been to a Buddhist funeral or a Catholic church.”

“Uh-huh, and how do you know that?”

“Incense,” she said triumphantly. “And you’re no Buddhist. So that means you went to church with your mother, had a lot to eat, and feel like throwing up now.”

“You knew that,” he protested. “I already told you that.”

She shook her head. “You didn’t.”

“Yes, I told you yesterday. You told me you had a date with that asshole Ding Dong, and I told you I was going to Mass with my mother on account of its being the Mexican Day of the Dead.”

“Shit, Mike, I did not tell you that.” April slammed the flat of her hand on the papers, then looked at it because it stung like a son of a bitch.

“Ha,” he said. “Ha.”

Now he thought he was speaking Chinese. “Wo ni hen,” she spit out.

“Oh, no, you love me. You just don’t know it yet.”

Sergeant Joyce hated it when anyone had a happy moment. Now she stomped over and stood looking from one to the other. “What’s going on?” she demanded, hands on chunky hips.

“The regular doorman’s on at Cowles’s building. I was just going over to question him.”

“Yeah,” Mike said. “And we’re going to have another chat with Mrs. Cowles.”

“Fine, then stop playing and get the fuck out of here. Check when the autopsy’s scheduled and see what they’ve got in the way of prints while you’re at it.”

“I checked on the prints already,” April said, glad to have a bomb to toss at them. “Two sets of prints all over the apartment. Raymond’s and someone else’s.”

“Oh, anything else you’d like to tell us this year, like whose they are?” Joyce shrilled.

“They’re running a computer check.” April’s eyes were innocent. “Maybe we’ll know something tomorrow. Maybe next week.” She shrugged. “You know how it is.”

“What about the plastic bag and the masking tape? Anything on that?” Mike asked.

April shook her head. “Raymond’s prints, only Raymond’s. Looks like it just might be a suicide.”

Joyce raked her fingers through her hair. “Okay, get going.”