My name is John Okinawa. I’m a cop. My father was a Jap, so I guess that makes me a son of a bitch. I smoke too much, drink too much and cheat on my wife. My mistress is a junky, I have no friends and my daughter is a whore. When I received the Outstanding Service medal, I used it to clock a punk in the face in an alley. The damned thing broke in half. I took his crack and smoked it while I was standing on his face. It was good. Call it the line of duty or a day’s work. I call it shit.
When I opened the fridge there was nothing to eat except roaches.
“Why isn’t there ever goddamned food in this house?” I yelled.
“Why don’t you ever buy some, you cheap bastard!” she yelled back.
“No, fuck you!”
I’d march back into the living room and beat her sore veins until she screamed like a siren. She wasn’t completely useless, not like Kim whom I’d brought over from the old country. Her old country was Korea and it was pretty goddamned old. By comparison my new country was brand new. As for our new country, it had the stale hardness of something never new, something that had gone bad on the shelf, with too many preservatives, unrecognizable and rotted to poison.
I didn’t have to be an American cop to get drugs and whores, but I wanted a settled life. Any lowlife can be a thug, not every thug can be a cop. I was accepted as the lowlife that I was. Hairy, AWOL from the Jap navy through Hong Kong and Viet Nam, up into Burma, shacked up with some Russian bitch turned out to be red underneath, shot her, stole her documents, sold same, came to America with Kim. I got her from an uncle who had a used virgin for sale. My partner was a wise guy who I didn’t like and who didn’t like me. There was to wonder between us. I’d stare into his fungus green eyes under his apelike brow and doglike sneer.
“There’s a clown in there havin’ a problem with his old lady. Ya wanna bust ‘im up?” I said, telling my intentions. Flintstone, yeah, Flintstone tries staring me down right back.
I said, ‘I’m goin’ in.”
He backed me up but shot wild, almost blowing my ear off. I shot him in the chest, took out the lights and let the assailant flee. Flintstone lay dying on the apartment’s threshold while I went after the perp up the fire escape. The guy wasn’t shooting, was scared and dropping turds at me as he climbed to the roof. I couldn’t get a clear shot. I had a pocketful of firecrackers and tossed them lit scattering and popping, illuminating the rooftop. I caught the guy, called 911 for my partner. He died. I got promoted to detective first grade. My asshole took on a whole new color.
She was seventeen, the fruit of my spiked loins. Evelyn. I’d catch up wither every two weeks to maintain abuse she’d come to depend on. It was a direct translation of cause into effect. I taught her how to take action with action. She was so done up like a street tart that she’d nearly wiped the Asian features from her face. She was white, running with sweat, straight hair down, one color or another, the rail little hag. This was my sweetheart. She’d do anything for her dad.
I walked my beat, kept my people in line with presence. The Lolita was leaning against a car. Walking cops catch crooks, talking cops give pneumonia. My beat was my street, around the corner from everything, the dark side facing the white neighborhood, not the light side that god left alone, Harlem’s edge. I caught my daughter by the arm, gripping tight. She winced. I grinned, “Let’s have a talk.”
I dragged her off the street, out of the light of the lamp post, grabbed her tit’s nipple and squeezed it dry, pushed quim apart and felt for her diaphragm. “This is the last time I’m gonna say this—,” I said, followed by jamming her full of pinky rod and spitting in her face. “You worthless little cunt! You’re a piece of shit. I hate you. You’re a worthless slut. Is this all your good for? You fucking whore.”
“Oh, yes, daddy—yes, yes—rape me, daddy, rape me—oh, daddy—oh, yes, yes!”
We were coming all over ourselves, her skinny legs dripping with saliva-like juices, her lower mouth farting cum. I sucked her whole mouth into mine and rammed big fingers up her asshole, stretched so wide I could fit a bottle. I did it. Did it all that night; kept stopping by. She was exhausted by morning, crawling home. I gave her money for dope.
Her mother was sleeping soundly when I came in.
“Kim!” I yelled. “Get up!” I drank a glass of scotch, drank again. “Get the fuck up!” It was three in the afternoon. I’d come off at eleven.
I was awake, drunk and wanting to fuck the lazy cowbitch. I grabbed her by the hair and raised her head. She’d overdosed on Valium again. I wasn’t worried about that. Habits are what they are. She was roused, responding with, “Uh?”
I fucked her in the mouth, her head in my hands like an open cup. Her body, limp from the neck down warm and sleeping. She couldn’t feel my dick but she could taste it with her eyes closed, she could be dreaming of a thousand dicks one after the other or one dream dick. I came in her face, leaving her on the bed, got more liquor, turned on the set and porn. I did do a few lines, relax wired to kill and dying. I wanted this life, chose it over the sloppier pursuits of business, cutting deals with cutthroats. Cops cut out the middleman, arrest the crew and take the whole stash. A cop has a real chance to do some good.
My day starts at night, usually with a shakedown. The green grocer had his eighteen-year old daughter working the store’s counter. She was making good money, paying her way through school. I brought up her age to her and some nonsense about child labor laws.
“Are you a girl or a lady?” I asked broadly.
“A girl—I mean a lady. I am a woman!” she angrily asserted.
“You’re that smart, huh? Well, act like a woman, bitch!”
I already had her hair by the handful and hit the counter flat with her zipper-eyed face. She only winced and papa-san thought he’d move over. I pinned his back to the cans of refried beans when his little Johnny comes roaring from the storeroom. I shot him and I shot his old man. The girl was the one left alive. I raised my badge to the red-eyed cam. I pulled the girl into the storeroom where there were no cams. I smacked her until she blacked out, went to the doors to the street and locked them with the dead man’s keys. His wife would call eventually. She’d come to take them home in the family car. That happened at about six am, when the spics took over the place. They ran it as a sandwich joint serving the Con-Ed boys from the sewer and the construction crews working on building the yuppies’ glass towers, receptionists and models, artists, gophers and nannies with prams. Cops. By night it was hookers, thieves, junkies, drunks and cops. The girl didn’t come around, lapsed into a spastic coma. Her eyes jutting open and shut in nervous pain. I bent her like a pretzel and took her on a sack of sweet potatoes. Her tan ass was rock hard. I fucked a couple of sweet potatoes and couldn’t tell the difference. I hadn’t put out the store’s big light so I didn’t leave by the front. I took the girl’s body with me, dumped her naked blocks away. She had potato dust up her ass. She’d be identified.
I was now wearing a bloody suit. My pistol had been fired and I was in a dark place. I walked the smashed glass covered floor of an alley, no one was responding to the gooks.
I hadn’t put the call in. I could be arrested for probable cause, not murder, not rape. I was a cop. I wasn’t going to be arrested at all. I found the back door of Mare’s building. The spic bitch let me use her for duck sauce. She had a thing about cops, wanted to fuck power. Other than that, she was preschool teacher and a junky. A nice girl by day, your basic dope-whore by night. She’d be awake with some dog’s cock in her mouth. She had an old apartment with a flimsy second door that I battered in more than once. I cam inside, went for the liquor, shot the boy and tossed his naked but for his sox skinny ass out the rear window.
“Damn you1” she clucked. “You’re gonna get me arrested! I’m not your accomplice, you bastard!” she came at me with a serrated kitchen knife and I broke her wrist, used the knife lightly on her, cut her nipples off and she bit me in the chest. She wouldn’t let go until the teeth rattled in her head. She didn’t have many left, but was drawing blood, my pectorals tightening in defense. I pulled her away from my chest, stretching her neck away from her jaw, her jaw from her skull. She was spurting blood like a fountain and mine was creeping like a growing amoeboid. I used my pistol barrel to gouge out her eye. Enough was enough. She grabbed her head and I shot through her hand. The blood stormed like a tsunami. There was no seeing anything except red.
I put the gun to my chest and shot her in the face, a piece of me flying down her throat. She gulped blood and I spit it out. I was shitting on myself when I peed, crawled to the tub in the kitchen, turned on hot water and climbed inside fully suit and lay until the tub flooded and washed the hard blood over onto the floor. I was leaving when a bunch of cops was running up the stairs. I ran to the roof and into the adjacent building. There was an open apartment door on the top landing. I went in bleeding badly. The woman sitting at the kitchen table was surprised. I had my star in my hand, my gun in my pocket, and my other hand on my chest full of blood. I wasn’t passing out.
“Get me some coffee,” I gasped.
She had instant. She ran to the cupboard and started pouring Taster’s choice from a tin can into a cup. “Give me that!”
I grit my teeth and took the dry coffee by the handful and ground the crumbs of caffeine into my open chest. Blood soaked it into mud and I went for more. I pushed her over and smashed through the cupboard myself. A bag of flour, dry cereal, cake mixes. I tore open the boxes and lathered myself in Betty Crocker and Gold Medal. The blood was bubbling and pus infected. I stopped running when the heat of my banging heart had baked a cake. The crust made a credible scab. My blood was running backwards, I got straight up on my feet, relieved at the mere pain lashing at shocked and deadened nerve endings. I was happier. Sat down at the table and had a cup of coffee. She’d passed out and was sleeping on pins beneath the window. The morning air was cool and excited with the noise of cops filtering over from the next building. They’d be there soon, following the trail of blood. I drank a lot of coffee.
I stripped, closed and locked the apartment door, picked the woman in my arms and carried her to her bedroom. There I hogtied her with black pantyhose and gagged her with her eyes wide open. I fished through her drawers until I came up with black socks, a folded suit’s dark jacket and white blouse. I’d simulate my suit, go back to the roof and wave to the boys across the way, split and go home. I was always known for being Johnny-on-the-spot and would wrap up this investigation in no time. I couldn’t leave the woman, so while I was still naked, I lifted her housedress, held her down and fucked her until she was good and harmless. She got used to the pounding and relaxed, enjoyed, stopped thinking of it as rape and realized it was seduction, wanted to kiss me but I flipped her over and fucked her ass instead, left her joyful, relieved, alive. She never said anything about me to anyone and I’d be back several times for coffee and a tight bondage fuck.
Kim was awake when I got home. I was doubly shocked because my homeless tramp of a daughter was with her. She looked like an abused schoolgirl. Her mother did too. Together they glared at me as I walked in the door.
“What is it?” I said, noting the stillness of it all.
“Things have got to change,” Kim announced.
“Oh, fuck you. I’ve had a hard day,” I said and went to the liquor.
I was drinking it in the living room when Kim and Evelyn came in and took seats to either side of me. I had enough problems and didn’t need these two birdbrains badgering me. “What do you want?” I hissed pissily, hoisting my glass of vitamin A.
“John, the bank called this morning. They said we have enough saved to put the down payment on the house.”
I snared, “What fucking house?” I drank.
“That house that we talked about. Don’t you remember? A place in the country where you and Evelyn could get healthy—don’t you see?”
My eyes were red. That’s all I saw.
“Look you worthless bitch, why should I put you up in a house in the country? You’re growing vegetables right here between your fucking ears. Forget it!”
I drank some more, not yet strong enough to hurt anyone. I fell asleep, dreaming about the damned house. The fucking thing floating there, burned and marred by racist attacks, white neighbors pinching the young girls, flower girls, innocent Asian virgins bred for defilement by their own mothers. What tasteless nightmare belched its way out of my moribund and damaged brain? I wasn’t willing to see the lynching go on, the chinks and kikes strung up with the niggers then everybody—the horizon crowded with hanging corpses. I had this dream every night, knew it like machinery. Every bit of it tailored to my coarse mentality. I couldn’t stand it, couldn’t stand up when I had it. Came to with Evelyn on her knees blowing me. Kim was asleep.
The captain didn’t like the looks of me that afternoon. He sat me at a desk.
“John, you’re fucked up. I can’t send you on assignments looking like this. You look like fucking Frankenstein. Did you see the mess over on Nicholas Lane?”
“A girl took two in the head, bit the guy.”
“Where is he?”
“Got away. You were there, right?”
He arched himself and took a look that wasn’t good enough. I did.
“Yeah. Had my own lead. Think I can find this perp. You know how spics are.”
“Spic? The guy was a spic? Like the kid in the alley, fresh kill. Looks like we’ve got something to go on.”
He got out of my face. “John, pull yourself together and you can handle this one personally. Until then, you’re a phone jockey.”
“They hear my voice and order Chinese.”
The assignment was top braid. I’d get another medal for this.
I began with a suspect. I had a guy in mind that owed me a favor. Desk duty didn’t suit me. I had hemorrhoids from hell that weren’t going to take that sitting down. Halfway through my shift, the captain loosened the leash and let me go free-range. I had a spic to kill. This guy knew me, had fucked my daughter and told her that he loved her. I had picked him up before, a lowlife kid that still wore a retainer, working as a messenger. He shot dice and hustled dominos with a bunch of porters in back of the old hotel. The sun had set in the east and was a dying blaze in the west. I crossed the street from light into darkness. I had an extra .38 in the crack of my ass and a .45 giving me a hard-on. The game was low point. It was illegal.
The kid was in the back row, against the wall. I hollered, “Police!” and he froze while I shot him. I shot some others too, didn’t pay any mind to their shouts, put them on the floor and left the scene. Called the bust in. I identified the guy on the slab.
“Yeah, that’s definitely the kid I saw.”
It was noted. “Punk thinks he can get away with this.”
“Obviously, he can’t,” said the captain.
We left the slabs, all records in order.
“We had and ID on him right away. He’s just your typical scum. Good work, John. You put another one down. His pals all turned over, almost squealed on the Cuban Connection.”
“We had wanted to keep that pipeline open. There’s some good dope coming in through it. It just takes one son of a bitch to ruin a great operation.”
“One son of a bitch. What’s Gonzales up to?”
“Same old, but his street connection just walked through central booking. He’s going to be quiet for a while.”
Gonzales and I were practically related. He’d shanked my daughter and filled her so full of coke she thought she was his daughter. His daughter had other affairs. I’d taken her in a raid on a social club. While the blues were busy beating down the crew, I tugged her aside for some information on her father. She said he wasn’t her father; he was her stepfather. “Good,” I said, “Then it won’t make any difference to him. He wouldn’t be the grandfather.”
“Wha—what?” she said.
She didn’t say much else. I wouldn’t let her scream, my gunpoint intimidating her sacrum. The cops clobbered everyone in the joint. She was luckily out of the room with my dick in a few of her orifice. She was okay at first; not so tight, watery like any good Latina, broken in by macho. She let me splay her out on her hands and knees, cum in her mouth, kick her in the eyes and punch her in her potbelly. She got better. She was good before I was through. Her juice ran like maple syrup through thick matted hair. She breathed hard and tried to vomit. I stepped in her mouth and held it back. She swallowed and choked.
Gonzales had never seen me and certainly didn’t want to meet me. He knew I had a bad reputation and didn’t want me to break the rules over his greasy head. The captain put me onto Gonzales’ closest known associate, a guy who knew his way around a piece of tail. He hung out at a go-go bar keeping the girls in g-strings. I recruited my everlovin’ fun loving’ daughter to get him to whip his dick out. She tried, walking into the bar and sat on his shoulder. He looked up and around the wayward girl. She was a floozy from the neighborhood, nothin’ special, but when she dropped down into his lap, he noticed.
She was chewing his cheek when I came in. He wanted to go outside for some air. She was invited. They left together out the back door. I watched a titty dancer come and go to the sounds of the seventies and stepped off through the same door. He was giving her the finger when I touched my gun to his brain.
He turned too fast and I shot him, wiping his ear across his nose. He fell ungunned, his pistol spilling lazily from his pocket. I looked at Evelyn over my smoking pistol.
“Get the wallet.”
She stooped and snatched it out of his pocket. She knew where it was, good whore that she was. She opened it in front of me and I flipped through the cards for one that seemed real with an address. “Let’s get the fuck out of here,” I said, pushing her against the back fence. Beyond it was an overgrown jungle of tall weeds and scrub brush. “Get over there,” I said, pushing her up the fence. She planted her platform sandal and vaulted herself over it. I followed and we walked from the backend of a vacant lot that opened onto the next block. We walked through the knotted brush until the dim dawn disappeared overhead. I lay her down on some ancient broken glass and churned sewage and put my dick in her mouth, my fingers in her twat and rolled her like dough through the dusty mud. I left her there sucking her thumb. Left covered in mud myself. I had Valentino’s ID card and made a dusty trail to the address on it. There was doorman. I showed my badge and clocked him with my gun. I found Gonzales’ mailbox and went to that apartment.
I knocked politely and got no answer so I shot the lock, kicked the door in and went in shooting. I emptied two guns into the house and its’ occupants, three children, two women and a man. There were no more Gonzales’. The Cuban Connection had dried up. We took over the trade from the backdoor of the precinct. Evelyn had found a new place to go when she wanted to be alone. I received so many goddamned embossed citations the blues started calling me Hero-Hito. I couldn’t stand the adulation, the media. I was mentioned all too casually in connection with foiling fiends, rapists and drug dealers. I was a murderer myself and wasn’t allowed the dignity of my misery. Other people were the victims, getting all the sympathy. Even the lowlife drug scum got murals painted in their honors. There was too much honor. There had been a vigil and memorial after the Korean grocer and his son’s bodies were found. The daughter came and went unidentified, a moss covered mess of leftover rat chow. More people would die before Kim got that house in the country, before Evelyn would go off and OD in the green hills of NC, a freshman in college.