Cole Shoot Page 4

“Ok, Ok, So tell about the bad. What happened?”

  “Miss Parra is mean. She yelled at Mei.”

  “Who is Miss Parra? I don’t know that name.” Josephina tried not to show her concern.

  “She’s new. I don’t like Miss Parra. She’s mean.” Marco began to rock gently, a sure sign he was upset. “She called Mei mean names.”

  “Why would she call names, hijo?” Josephina said gently.

  “Mei showed her, her, her drawing and she and she...” Marco’s rocking quickened.

  “Shh, shh, slow down. It’s Ok, I’m listening.”

  “She spilled water. Miss Parra yelled at her. She, she, she called her ‘clumsy idiot’. That’s mean talk.”

  “Yes it is, hijo. We don’t say mean things.”

  “Miss Parra is mean. I don’t like her.”

  “Ok, well maybe she was having a bad day.” Josephina’s words seemed hollow to her even as she spoke them.

  “I wish I had a 415 McClarren. I’d go drive away with Mei. No mean words.” Marco’s words trailed of as he drifted into his own thoughts.

  FOUR

  Anthony sat quietly through the late lunch meeting with Leonard Chin. The Detective was a very stiff man with a wicked sense of black humor. It seemed there was nothing sacred when it came to one of his hilarious verbal slashes. Cole gave, bobbed, weaved, and returned as good as Chin gave out. To Anthony’s amazement, neither man gave more than a slight grin at the other’s remarks. It seemed that part of the game was not to show the other their amusement at their wit. Anthony laughed aloud twice at the beginning of the meeting, but the silence at the table after was deafening. From that point on he showed little or no response to the irreverent lunch banter.

  The interview with Cole, however, took a very serious tone. No clever remarks, jokes, puns, or barbs. It was straight ahead police work, the kind that several years before was not unfamiliar to Anthony.

  “How many shooters did you see?” Chin began.

  “Three to four on each side I guess.”

  “Guess?”

  “OK, Three to four shooters on each side.”

  “Could you identify any of the shooters if you saw them again?”

  “The Asians, maybe; the Mexicans, definitely not. They mostly had their backs to me.”

  “Alright, tell me about the Asians.”

  “White t-shirts, jeans, and khakis. Lots of tats. White flat-brimmed baseball caps with FCBZ stitched in black and silver. Young, late teens, early twenties,” Cole said trying to pull back mental images.

  “Doin’ good,” Chin said as he wrote in his black leather note pad. “Any facial characteristics you remember?”

  “I was so worried about Kelly, I didn’t really try to focus on the shooters until the firing stopped.” Cole looked over at Anthony. “I really tried to register tattoo designs, something, anything, that could help, but it was such chaos and they all ran so fast after the fact, I really have nothing.”

  “That’s OK.” Let’s go back to before the shooting started.

  “The Norteños...”

  “How do you know they were Norteños?” Chin interrupted.

  “They were all flamed up. Lots and lots of red.”

  “Alright, go on.”

  “The Norteños beat on a guy in the crowd. Not sure what that was about. He took some pretty good licks. Did he come forward?” Cole inquired.

  “No. Let me do the questions for a while, Newsboy,” Chin jibed.

  Cole shrugged and winked at Anthony.

  “So, what was the first you knew there was going to be trouble?”

  “I was about a hundred feet from where I had been sitting. I saw the Asians come from the crowd. To my right there was suddenly lots of red coming off the curb, then the shots. Only a couple at first, and then pow, pow, pow! I have no idea how many, but it was like strands of firecrackers going off. Mostly small caliber, .22s maybe. Then the big stuff. Cannons, Glock tens? 9mm at the smallest. Maybe a .35 or a 45 even. Big booming shots.”

  “Then?”

  “I rushed back to Kelly. I pulled her to the ground. I really tried to take in the scene, because I knew I would be interviewed. But, I have nothing concrete.”

  “Just a bit more. When you found Chris Ramos, what can you tell me?”

  “The dragon had collapsed. I lifted it off where he was lying. I saw, I recognized his shoe. He was obviously dead,” Cole’s voice faded off.

  “That ought to do it. Thanks, buddy,” Chin said.

  “Pretty weak.”

  “I’ve gotten worse. Don’t beat yourself up. Who the hell thinks they’re going to be a war correspondent at a parade?”

  The three parted company with Cole assigning his young protégé with the task of gathering background and color for the series they would work on about the Parade Shootout. Leonard, wished them well and promised to follow up with any information, in other words, an exclusive angle on the story. Cole picked up the tab.

  Anthony didn’t want to admit it, but he really wasn’t sure how he was going to start. Writing articles for the University of Chicago Maroon was on home turf. College kids are usually approachable for an interview. Once you get them started, you have a hard time getting them to shut up. This was different. Cole said to gather background. That required talking to people. In this case, people in Chinatown. Anthony knew from his own life, that communities like the one he grew up in, were tight, protective, and closed mouthed to strangers.

  Look casual, Anthony thought. He stood for a long moment outside Starbuck’s staring at the Chinatown Gate. A sip of his coffee, a deep breath, the orange hand changed to the green walking man, and ready or not, Anthony Perez was walking into Chinatown a reporter.

  “Here we go,” Anthony said, crossing Bush Street.

  The green tile, arched entry to Chinatown was crowded with tourists. Buses full of European, Australian, and Japanese tourists were let off down the street. Two abreast and single file they followed tour guides waving little colored flags onto Grant Street and the exotic wonders to come.

  For nearly half an ,hour Anthony walked up and down Grant, looking at the vast array of merchandise cluttering the sidewalk in front of the shops. He studied menus on restaurant windows and wandered down the occasional side street. To his embarrassment, he hadn’t spoken to a soul.

  A badly bowed and very old Chinese man was standing in front of his vegetable stall giving orders to a young woman as Anthony approached them. The old man slipped just inside the door as Anthony greeted the young woman.

  “Good afternoon.”

  “Hello.”

  “I’m from the Chronicle can I ask you a couple of questions?”

  “I guess so,” the young woman said, not looking up from her work.

  “I suppose you heard about the tragic shootings at the Parade,” Anthony began.

  “No.”

  “The shootings at the Chinese New Year’s Parade?” he said in disbelief.

  “No.” The young woman continued to straighten the vegetables.

  “Do you think there has been an increase in gang activity in Chinatown in recent months?”

  “No.”

  The old man began moving toward Anthony and his employee.

  “Are there any Chinese people in San Francisco?”

  “No.”

  “Thought not,” Anthony replied.

  “You buy vegabull?” the old man demanded.

  “I was looking for real Chinese vegetables. The young lady said there were no Chinese in San Francisco, so I guess I have to wait until I get to LA.”

  The young woman giggled softly.

  “No talk. No buy. Go away.” The old man took a broom leaning against the wall and began sweeping toward Anthony.

  The old man said something in Chinese to the young woman and she scurried inside the shop. Anthony was emboldened by his first encounter with the residents of Chinatown and spent the next hour going up and down the street attempting to get something, anything out
of the merchants, clerks, and anyone else standing still.

  “This is just like home,” Anthony said as he was briskly asked by a waiter to leave the Eastern Gate Restaurant.

  The tall man in the crisp white shirt and black pants all but physically put Anthony out the door.

  “Not a Chronicle subscriber, huh?” Anthony quipped as the waiter continued to scold him in Chinese. “All I wanted was a bowl of noodles.”

  Anthony shrugged and walked on. Out of the corner of his eye he saw a teenage girl looking at him.

  “Hi,” Anthony said moving towards her. “I’m from the Chronicle, can I ask you a couple of questions?”

  “I know who you are. Someone wants to talk to you,” The girl offered.

  “That’s one in a row.”

  Without any reaction, the girl turned and walked back toward Pine Street. As they approached the stoplight at an intersection, the girl didn’t slow or break stride and walked right through the traffic. Anthony paused at the curb, saw a break in the line of cars, and darted across the street. About thirty yards later the girl ducked into an alcove between two shops. There was nothing but a steel grated door and a door bell.

  “Where are we going?” Anthony asked.

  There was no reply. The girl pushed the stained ivory button and the door buzzed and made a metallic click. She pushed the door open, crossed the small entry, and began to ascend a steep flight of stairs. Anthony looked at the bare wall to his left and the small collection of brass mail box doors on his right.

  This is what you came for, he thought, and started up the stairs. At the top of the stairs the girl waited in a hallway lit only by a frosted window at the far end. About halfway down the hall she knocked on a door. As the door opened, she turned, and looked Anthony in the eyes for the first time. She gave him a sneer, blew out of her nose, and went back toward the stairs.

  Standing in the doorway was a young Chinese man in his late teens or early twenties. He was about the same height as Anthony but much thinner. His crisp white, oversized t-shirt hung like a drape on his thin shoulders. On the bill of the white baseball cap he wore was a gold size and label sticker, across the crown was emblazed FCBZ in black and silver thread.

  A rush of excitement shot through Anthony. This is the source. This is more than background. I can really get a story. His mind raced trying to formulate his first question.

  “You the newspaper guy?”

  “Anthony Perez, I’m with The Chronicle.”

  The thin young man stepped to the right side of the doorway and motioned Anthony in. In a moment, Anthony’s excitement turned to apprehension. As he took in the room, he counted six young Asians in FCBZ ball caps. This was no simple interview. These guys had a message to deliver.

  The obvious top dog sat a round table at the far end of the room. The surface of the table was cluttered with ashtrays, beer bottles, and several tattoo magazines. The man at the table sat with his back to the window and formed a dark silhouette against the bright incoming light.

  “Have a seat.” The seated man instructed.

  Anthony crossed the room and pulled out a chair across from the seated man.

  “Why you bother the people in my neighborhood?”

  “I didn’t mean to. I was just trying to gather some information,” Anthony’s tone was firm and matter of fact.

  “They don’t like it. That means we don’t like it. That means I really don’t like it.”

  “I get that. You don’t like it.”

  The man flipped the lid on a dark, burgundy colored box on the table and took out a small cigar. Anthony wasn’t so far removed from the street that he didn’t recognize a “blunt”, a hollowed out cigar filled with marijuana. The idea being that you could smoke it in public without anybody knowing what it was. From the smell of the very first cloud of smoke that crossed the table, Anthony could tell the Firecracker Boyz held some pretty strong cannabis.

  “I’m Johnny Zhuó. My crew calls me Trick. You can call me Mr. Zhuó.” He took a deep hit on the blunt.

  “Alright. So how would you like to do an interview for the paper?”

  “Mr. Zhuó.” He looked around for approval from the others in the room. They obliged by giving a soft chuckle.

  “Mr. Zhuó,” Anthony added.

  “What you want to know?”

  “I would like to record our conversation so I don’t forget anything or make a mistake.” Anthony pulled a small digital recorder from his pocket, paused and said,”Mr. Zhuó.”

  “You want some of this? Good shit.”

  “I’m good,” Anthony said declining the offer to share Zhuó’s blunt.

  As Anthony laid the recorder on the table between them, Zhuó’s eyes narrowed. He slowly blew out a very fine plume of smoke. In what seemed a frozen lapse of time, Anthony realized Zhuó was staring at the faded XIV tattooed between his thumb and index finger. Although Anthony was going through the laser treatments to remove it, the faded blue ink was still clear enough for anyone acquainted with the gang identification.

  “OK, first question. Who controls Chinatown?” Anthony hoped this obvious bow to the assumed power of the FCBZ street gang would not betray his increased heart rate.

  Zhuó gave an exaggerated laugh. The rest of the room exploded in a show of gang pride and bravado.

  “What part?” Zhuó said stilling the room.

  “Let’s start with that blend you’re smoking.” Anthony smiled, trying to look confident.

  “They call it Big Buddha Cheese,” the room once again burst into stoned laughter. “For sure not for Norteños.” Zhuó gave Anthony a cobra like stare.

  “So let’s talk about the Parade.”

  “Let’s not.”

  “Why’s that? You don’t want to or you don’t have any information worth sharing?”

  Zhuó took another deep hit. He was beginning to show signs of the effects of the powerful strain of weed. His lids were drooping just a bit. His gaze was unblinking, though, as he repeatedly drew a small circle on the top of the table. Anthony sensed the game was about to change but was unable to decide what to do.

  “I was thinking it would be good to talk to someone at a newspaper. I wanted the people to know we are a community minded group of Chinese-American young people. What I find is a Beaner snitch sitting at my table of hospitality.”

  Anthony laid both hands flat on the table top and leaned forward. “My name is Anthony Perez. I am a student at the University Of Chicago School Of Journalism. I am currently working as an intern at the San Francisco Chronicle, while completing my Master’s Degree. I resent being called a Beaner. I answer to no one except God and Cole Sage and he is available to verify what I’m telling you at The Chronicle.” Anthony stared unblinking at Zhuó.

  “What? You trying to be funny?”

  “Why? Was it?” Anthony remembered Cole using that line on his friend Luis in LA once. He figured it might lighten the mood. It didn’t work.

  “Oh, I see, this is College Boy being a bad ass,” Zhuó said contemptuously.

  “I get it. I’m Mexican, therefore the other side. Frankly, I don’t care what you thugs do. I’m just here to see if you had anything to say.” Anthony stood up, picked the recorder off the table and turned toward the door.

  * * *

  Marco’s favorite day at school was Art Day. He loved the feel of the tempera paint under his fingers sliding across the paper. The smooth wet colors swirl like a pretty melody from the jukebox at the restaurant. There are days he gets so lost in the gliding motion he forgets everything and everyone, but not today. It was not that kind of day.

  “Miss Parra is really mean today,” Marco whispered to Mei.

  “I know, she’s not nice to nobody.”

  The new aid was sitting in the corner with a don’t-mess-with-me scowl. She growled, sneered, and scolded the kids in the class, until the door would open and a teacher or Administrator walked in. Then her countenance would change, and it was “honey”, “sweetie�
��, and a smile a yard wide.

  Her mood swings kept the kids off balance and upset. Marco did his best not to look at her.

  “She called Caleb a ‘tard. She said it soft, but I heard,” Marco whispered.

  “You should tell on her,” Mei returned.

  “No way! I don’t want my ear twisted again.

  “Be quiet!” Came a harsh command from the aid.

  Mei sat quietly not painting, not talking, not breathing. She was terrified of the new aid. Mrs. Stroud, their teacher, was getting ready to retire and was training a new teacher. She spent a lot of time in the room next door with the new teacher, leaving the aid alone in the room.

  A boy named Adam, across the room, flicked blue watercolor with his paint brush and it hit the girl next to him.

  “Don’t!”

  The squeal from the girl with the new blue freckles sent the room into an uproar. The aid crossed the room with angry strides. Adam, with the wayward paint brush, was laughing and pointing at the blue sprinkles on his neighbor’s face and didn’t see the aid’s rapid approach.

  “I am sick of your stupid antics!” Parra grabbed Adam’s ear. “Get over here!” She hardly gave him a chance to get out of his chair before she began dragging the boy across the room.

  As the aid and howling boy crossed the crowded room, Adam slammed into Mei’s easel sending her cups of blue, red, and green tempera paint into a rainbow arch skyward. At the rainbow’s end was the beige linen of Parra’s pant leg.

  “You little moron!” Parra screamed at Mei and, in a heartbeat, shoved her so hard she toppled over the easel and the empty chair next to her. “Look at my pants, you freak! You’ll pay for this!”

  “Stop it!” Marco shouted at the aid. He jumped to his feet and faced Parra. “Leave her alone.”

  “Stay away from me, you freak!”

  Mei felt around on the floor for her glasses. Without them she was nearly blind. Even with the thick lenses, her eyesight was minimal. Her hands were wet with paint, but after a moment, she felt her glasses in the mess.

  Marco pressed both his fists to his temples and closed his eyes tightly. “Leave her alone!”