Shadow of a Tiger

10

I called Lieutenant Marx before I went down to the prison, and when I got there they were expecting me. Marx had said I could see Jimmy Sung-with Jimmy’s lawyer.

The lawyer was a big, energetic-looking man with a heavy briefcase and eyes sunk deep in the heavy black sockets of a man who rarely got enough sleep. His name was Kandinsky. He wanted to know what I had. I told him. It wasn’t much, but Kandinsky hadn’t expected much.

“The wife too?” the lawyer said. “The sister-in-law hires me, the wife hires you. Good, I can use that.”

“His priest hired me too, swears by Jimmy,” I said.

“A Buddhist kook won’t carry much weight with a jury sure to be half-Catholic, half-Jewish,” Kandinsky said se riously, “but the wife thinking he didn’t do it is good. I can deal with that. With no real motive, a shaky case on the robbery, that bad deal out in the California nut house, and the victim’s wife and sister-in-law on our side, the D.A.’ll have to deal. I can get delays and rulings forever. He’ll settle for a minimum charge, and a guilty plea. Clear the calendar. Five years tops.”

“How about if I prove him innocent?”

“Well, that’s the hard way, but go ahead and try,” Kandinsky said. “That all you have?”

“That’s all.”

The lawyer nodded, and when Jimmy was brought into the visitors room, gave the stocky Chinese a reassuring smile.

“It’s good, Jimmy. I’m sure I can deal for you. Behave yourself, get some sleep. I’ve got four more clients to see today, okay?”

The lawyer’s smile seemed to still be in the room after he had gone. I watched Jimmy. The stocky man’s broad, pale-brown face revealed nothing, not even the alcoholic’s torture inside without his liquor. His dark eyes blinked at the door where Kandinsky had left. His work-gnarled fingers ran through his thinning gray hair-the only sign of any nerves.

“He’s a good lawyer?” Jimmy said.

“I’d say so,” I said. “He must be costing Li Marais a lot.”

Jimmy nodded, didn’t smile. “She’s a good woman, sure. I know. We understand.”

“Kandinsky’ll deal for you, Jimmy. I’d like to get the truth. Tell me the whole story, okay?”

“Truth?” Jimmy Sung’s dark eyes were immobile. “What truth you mean, Mr. Fortune? I told the cops all I know.”

“And a lot of lies,” I said. “You were there that night?”

“Okay, yeh. I got there maybe ten o’clock. For chess. We played some. I left around eleven o’clock. Mr. Marais was okay.”

“The game was over? With the chess set still up?”

Jimmy licked at his lips. “Mr. Marais got a call. Some guy coming to see him. No time to finish the game. I left.”

“What man was coming to see him?”

“I don’t know.”

“His brother? Claude Marais?”

“He was there before I got there.”

“He was supposed to come back.”

“No one told me about it. Mr. Marais he expected someone, he didn’t tell me who. The call was the guy he expected.”

The stocky Chinese spoke short and flat, each statement without overtones. No tone of question, no fervor of innocence. Not uninterested, but saying that he was telling all he could, and that was all. His normal manner, flat and brief, but now his left hand had begun to twitch, clench.

“Did you see the man Eugene Marais expected, Jimmy?”

“I was gone.”

“Were you drunk, Jimmy?”

“Maybe some.”

“By ten o’clock? When do you usually start drinking? Maybe five-thirty? Six o’clock? Four and a half hours?”

“My woman was with me, Marie. She holds me down. I took it slow. The chess game, you know? That’s how come I took a bottle with me to the shop. I was drunk some, not bad.”

The middle-aged Chinese’s left hand went on with its nervous jumping. He didn’t hold it, or try to stop it. He didn’t seem to notice it. I had the feeling that no matter where or when I talked to Jimmy Sung he would be the same-locked deep inside some thick shell where only he lived. Even the drab prison clothes looked much the same as his day-to-day clothes.

“Where did you go after eleven or so, Jimmy?”

“Some bars. I told the cops. They don’t believe me. No one says they saw me.”

“Did anyone see you who knew you?”

“No one knows me much. I drink in a booth. A lot of bars.”

“No regular tavern?”

“No. Except where I work sweeping. I don’t go to those.”

“Tell me the bars,” I said.

“Fugazy’s Tavern, Packy’s Pub, the Tugboat. The cops been there already.”

“You never know when you’ll get lucky,” I said. “You saw no one else at the pawn shop that night?”

“The girl come in, Danielle. With her kid, that Charlie Burgos. Mr. Marais tossed them out before I left.”

“What did they want?”

“I don’t know. They was always bugging Mr. Marais. No good punk kids. No respect. Too damned weak, Mr. Marais.”

I heard the change in his voice before it showed on his broad face. A crack in the flat monotone, a catch like some liquid in his throat, and then the wet dark eyes. His jumping left hand brushed at his eyes. Whatever it was, it was no act. An edge of tears.

“This city, I got no friends. No one. I got no name, but he was my friend, Mr. Marais. He gave me work, paid me good. I work good for him, now he got to die. He ain’t like most of them. French, too, but he treats me good. That Buddha he give me, free, so when he’s dead I pray to it, burn incense. For him. He’ll be okay. He was my friend.”

What did it mean? I’ve seen killers cry for their victims before. Too many times, the murderous moment gone. I’ve even seen them forget who did the killing. Yet, Eugene Marais had been Jimmy Sung’s friend, and where was a motive for murder?

“You’ve got friends, Jimmy. Li Marais. Claude. The widow. Me, I hope. Marie Schmidt. She’s a strong woman, I think.”

“A drunk. Like me,” Jimmy Sung said, the moment of tears past. “She got no one else but me. A Chink sweeps floors.”

“She’s waiting for you,” I said.

“Yeh, Marie’s okay.”

“She wasn’t there when you got home that night? What time?”

“Who knows. By then I’m drunk. I sleep late.”

“You’re sure no one saw you after eleven o’clock?”

Jimmy Sung only shrugged. Who would remember him?