Jack circled behind him, let the rap run a few more beats before stopping the machine. He stood to one side of DaShawn, saying into the sudden silence, “Whup dat Chinee, huh? Chop, chop,chop?”

A nervous grin tightened DaShawn’s face.

“Funny, ha?” Jack said, leaning in, saying in a soft voice. “You shot me, you little bastard. Shoot a cop? That’s attempted murder. That alone gets you twenty-five to life. Shit, you really hit the big time now, son.” He took the tape from the recorder and waved it in front of DaShawn.

“That gives you motive. You’re a hater,” Jack said, slapping down the photograph of the three boyz in the hood. “That’s you and the gang.” Using the evidence like a box cutter, slicing away at the would-be hard-ass.

DaShawn’s eyes danced over the photo even as Jack flipped down the Polaroid shot of Tyrone. “And that’s your homey, Tyrone.” Jack paused before adding, “Who, by the way, says it was you. He says you killed the delivery boy.”

“Boo-shit,” protested DaShawn.

“Tell you what, homeboy,” Jack sneered, “you’re going down for this shit. We’ve got the Chinese kid’s blood on the bat. And the hammer. And your prints are all over them.”

“So whut?” DaShawn said. “ Lotsa people prints there, yo. We all played baseball, so whut?”

“And on the hammer? You all played hammer -ball?”

“Yeah, we wuz fixing up the crib, doing the Home Depo . . .”

“Smart-ass huh? Well, your boy Jamal also says it was you all the way.”

“Nah, he ain’t said no shit like dat.”

“Oh yeah, you, all the way. Gave you up to save his own sorry ass.”

“Nah, nah, you trying to gas me, yo.”

“Jamal said you, with the bat, swinging for the yard.”

“Nah, playing me wit dis booshit.”

“Tyrone said you, with the hammer.”

“Tryin’ ta punk me . . .”

“Did you do the stabbing, too? Where’s the knife?”

“I ain’t stab no one.”

“You’re saying Jamal stabbed him?” Jack continued. “Or you both stabbed him? Or you took turns stabbing him?”

“Neither one of us! And Jamal ain’t said nuthin like dat.”

“You? Or Jamal? Or Tyrone?”

“Man, step offa dat shit.”

Jack leaned down, put his palms on the table, disgust on his face, and said, “You’re looking at life, son. This isn’t TV here, you can’t change the channel. Better tell the truth, because Jamal and Tyrone are offering up your dumb ass, said you had the gun, you led the way. You know what a life sentence is like?” Jack smiled, shook his head slowly. “No weed. No pussy. Matter of fact, you’re going to be the pussy. Telling you, better fess up, son.”

“Booshit, all booshit.”

“Jamal turned on you, kid. Bitched up and turned. He said he’s not doing the bid for what you did. Tyrone, too. Said you bugged out. All he wanted was some Chinese food, but you got carried away.”

“Lying, you lying.”

“Plus we got you with the gun. That’s A-One Attempted Murder. On a cop, too.”

“We ain’t know you wuz a cop. Chinee? Shit. You ain’t had no uniform on. We thought you wuz coming back from the takeout, looking for a tip.”

“You’re lucky if you don’t get the needle.”

“Nah, man, I ain’t know you wuz a cop.”

“You ain’t know I was a cop? I yelled it out, fool. In English, not Chinee.”

“We ain’t heard shit.Wu Tang was slammin’ off the player, we couldn’t hear shit. All we saw was ching chong in the peephole.”

Jack huffed, “ And you know what? The Big Surprise?” smiling a Chesire Cat smile. “We got your DNA, too. Wanna bet we match it on the kid’s body?”

DaShawn slowly waggled his head in disbelief, speechless.

“ Jamal said you needed money. He said—”

“No, he ain’t. No, he ain’t.”

Jack straightened up, took a breath, and said, “Last chance. I’m tired. I want to go home and sleep. Take a nap. Who the fuck needs this?”

DaShawn was squeezing his fingers, rubbing his knuckles, the jittery bird in his eyes. Tyrone? Punk-ass Tyrone? But not Jamal.

“I’m tired,” Jack repeated. “Maybe I’ll just pass this shit along to the DA. If you don’t want to deal to save your own ass? Fuck you then. It’s a slam dunk anyway.”

“ Jamal?” DaShawn started drifting. “ Nah, booshit.”

“You’re all going down. It’s just a matter of how long. I can hook you up now, or you can lawyer up. Whatever. Personally, I don’t give a fuck.”

He watched DaShawn’s stare go distant.

“Gametime, DaShawn.” Jack went toward the door. “Fuck, just let the DA charge you. Murder is a bitch bid, kid.” He chopped down the door latch.

A low rumble came out of DaShawn. The rumble sounded like aah-ite and built to a roar as he slammed his fists on the table.

“Aaahite!! He screamed. “Aaaahiite!!”

Jack put a fresh tape into the recorder.

“Tell it.” He thrust the machine forward.

Takeout

“When the delivery came Jamal said, ‘Run the cash, ching chong.’ Then the Chinese kid went into his pocket and Jamal hit him in the back with the hammer. The kid threw the money to the floor. He started yelling and crying, trying to git away. Then Tyrone stabbed him and Jamal tossed a blanket over him, still beating him with the hammer. Tyrone kept stabbing into the blanket ’cause he kept moving, kicking his legs. Then Jamal grabbed the bat and hit him real hard on top and he went down. Jamal, mo times wit da bat. The kid was still crying but not so loud anymore. Tyrone finished him off with the hammer, ’til he didn’t move no more.”

DaShawn took a breath, was quiet a long moment. “I thought we wuz jes gonna rob him,” he said. “I know Jamal wanted money for sneakers, but I didn’t know Tyrone and him wuz gonna kill the guy. Swear to God, yo.”

Jack leaned back and caught the rest of DaShawn’s version.

“After, Jamal got mad. He was bitchin like ‘Damn. Chinee muthafucka only had fitty-one dollas.’ Tyrone was laughing, saying, ‘Shit, Nigga. No Air Jordons fo yo nigga ass!’ Jamal started cursing ‘Ah’ma have ta git two mo dese chinkees fo enough paper, yo.’ Tyrone said ‘So call in another takeout, nigga,’ but Jamal slapped him, said, ‘Everyone is closed now, fool.’ Then he was yelling, ‘Come on, clean dis shit up! Move dis ching-chong mofukka outta here before five-o comes down.’ Tyrone saying ‘Lookit all the blood. Red, too.’ He thought Chinee blood was yellow. They was laughing.”

Jack felt his hatred rise. They were all laughing, a hysterical joke, even as they wrapped the body, sponged up the blood. He stopped the tape recorder, made DaShawn scribble a statement implicating the other two.

“It was dem who done it. Tyrone and Jamal, they killd the Chinee kid.”

Jack took the signed statement and the tape, left the room, and went back to the detective’s area. Pasini waited there, grinning like he was impressed.

Jack reloaded the rap tape, readied the photographs. He gave Pasini a nod and headed for the holding cell where Tyrone was waiting to turn on his pals.

The Medical Examiner’s report had been delivered by one of the uniforms, who’d placed it in the wire basket on the detective’s table. It had Pasini’s name on it but Jack opened it anyway, took a long hard look.

Grisly morgue pictures of the teenager Hong’s body. Seen at different angles the body had thirteen stab wounds, from a knife blade eight inches in length, front and back, torso, stomach, shoulder, back, and arms, just everywhere. Some of the thrusts pierced his stomach and exited out of his lower back.

One stab had pierced his heart.

Six additional wounds to the head and shoulders, round quarter-size indentations about a half-inch deep. Blunt force impressions. One of the gangstas had swung the hammer like he was doing demolition work.