eat meat?”
I watched him order for us, the way he passed the kid his food without asking him what he wanted.
“You’re all brothers, aren’t you?” I asked the kid.
He stopped smacking his food and checked for a reaction from his partner up front.
“You old enough to drink?” I continued.
“Hey, man, I’ll be twenty-three in December.”
“And he’s the oldest, right? What, twenty-five?”
He looked away, chuckling like he didn’t care, and stuffed his mouth with some fries. In the rearview mirror, his brother was ignoring us, driving and chewing his food evenly.
“Behind us,” I said, gesturing at the third brother trailing us in my Chrysler, the one who had handed me the note in the parking lot. “He’s younger than you both. Looks like he got his driver’s license last week.”
The kid made a face. “Come on, man, we don’t look that much alike.”
“You don’t need to. I can still tell.”
He tried to suss out my meaning, his grin a defensive one now. He couldn’t see what I saw: the older brother’s authority, unquestioned, almost paternal. It was a right of kinship wielded by Asian siblings, whether they looked alike or not—a right I would have envied had I a brother or sister.
Hours later, as we traveled deep into the night, I was watching him sleep when he opened his eyes, like he’d only been meditating, and stared at the back of his brother’s head.
I noticed something in his hand. Before we left my apartment in Oakland, they had me call the station and leave a message for my sergeant, explaining only that I would be out of town indefinitely for a family emergency. Then they made me pack a small duffel bag and change into civilian clothing. Before we left, they took one of my credit cards and also my badge, which I could now see in the kid’s palm. He was caressing it slowly with his thumb.
He peered at me. “How many people’ve you killed, Mr. Officer?”
“I’ve lost count.”
“Come on, you ain’t young. How you be a cop in Oakland for so long and not kill nobody?”
“We don’t kill people. We defend ourselves when necessary and sometimes people die. It’s part of the job. It’s not exactly intentional.”
“Man, it’s intentional if you killing them before they kill you.”
“All right. If that’s how you want to see it.”
“So come on, how many you shot. How many you killed?”
“I’ve never killed anyone. You look disappointed.”
“No one, huh? But I bet you wanted some of them bitches to die, right?”
There was a vulgar sincerity in the way he kept nodding at me as though, despite the difference between us in age and profession, we shared some secret affinity because of the hardware we carried.
“Sure, I wanted a few assholes to not make it. Do I have to give you a number? Tell me yours.”
He looked up as if sifting through his memory. “Shit, I—”
His brother snapped at him in Vietnamese, three or four clipped words and a glare in the rearview mirror, his sudden scowl as startling as his tone. The kid fell silent and sheepishly turned to the window.
The brother glanced at me before returning his eyes to the road, as if returning to a reverie, as if the night saddened him.
I T WAS DAYLIGHT when I awoke, with the kid driving now and the brother seated next to me, facing the window. His coughinghad awoken me, but the car was coasting in funereal silence. I sat up and saw that we’d arrived in Vegas, crawling along I-15 in early-morning traffic. Still following us, nearly riding our rear bumper, was the youngest brother in my Chrysler.
I yawned, and this time it was the kid glancing back in the rearview mirror.
I said, “Your baby brother been driving all night long?”
“Don’t worry, he’s a fucking vampire. He doesn’t sleep till the sun’s out. We drop you off, and his ass is going to bed.”
“And where are you dropping me off?”
“You think I know?”
Next to me, the eldest brother lit a cigarette and
I watched him order for us, the way he passed the kid his food without asking him what he wanted.
“You’re all brothers, aren’t you?” I asked the kid.
He stopped smacking his food and checked for a reaction from his partner up front.
“You old enough to drink?” I continued.
“Hey, man, I’ll be twenty-three in December.”
“And he’s the oldest, right? What, twenty-five?”
He looked away, chuckling like he didn’t care, and stuffed his mouth with some fries. In the rearview mirror, his brother was ignoring us, driving and chewing his food evenly.
“Behind us,” I said, gesturing at the third brother trailing us in my Chrysler, the one who had handed me the note in the parking lot. “He’s younger than you both. Looks like he got his driver’s license last week.”
The kid made a face. “Come on, man, we don’t look that much alike.”
“You don’t need to. I can still tell.”
He tried to suss out my meaning, his grin a defensive one now. He couldn’t see what I saw: the older brother’s authority, unquestioned, almost paternal. It was a right of kinship wielded by Asian siblings, whether they looked alike or not—a right I would have envied had I a brother or sister.
Hours later, as we traveled deep into the night, I was watching him sleep when he opened his eyes, like he’d only been meditating, and stared at the back of his brother’s head.
I noticed something in his hand. Before we left my apartment in Oakland, they had me call the station and leave a message for my sergeant, explaining only that I would be out of town indefinitely for a family emergency. Then they made me pack a small duffel bag and change into civilian clothing. Before we left, they took one of my credit cards and also my badge, which I could now see in the kid’s palm. He was caressing it slowly with his thumb.
He peered at me. “How many people’ve you killed, Mr. Officer?”
“I’ve lost count.”
“Come on, you ain’t young. How you be a cop in Oakland for so long and not kill nobody?”
“We don’t kill people. We defend ourselves when necessary and sometimes people die. It’s part of the job. It’s not exactly intentional.”
“Man, it’s intentional if you killing them before they kill you.”
“All right. If that’s how you want to see it.”
“So come on, how many you shot. How many you killed?”
“I’ve never killed anyone. You look disappointed.”
“No one, huh? But I bet you wanted some of them bitches to die, right?”
There was a vulgar sincerity in the way he kept nodding at me as though, despite the difference between us in age and profession, we shared some secret affinity because of the hardware we carried.
“Sure, I wanted a few assholes to not make it. Do I have to give you a number? Tell me yours.”
He looked up as if sifting through his memory. “Shit, I—”
His brother snapped at him in Vietnamese, three or four clipped words and a glare in the rearview mirror, his sudden scowl as startling as his tone. The kid fell silent and sheepishly turned to the window.
The brother glanced at me before returning his eyes to the road, as if returning to a reverie, as if the night saddened him.
I T WAS DAYLIGHT when I awoke, with the kid driving now and the brother seated next to me, facing the window. His coughinghad awoken me, but the car was coasting in funereal silence. I sat up and saw that we’d arrived in Vegas, crawling along I-15 in early-morning traffic. Still following us, nearly riding our rear bumper, was the youngest brother in my Chrysler.
I yawned, and this time it was the kid glancing back in the rearview mirror.
I said, “Your baby brother been driving all night long?”
“Don’t worry, he’s a fucking vampire. He doesn’t sleep till the sun’s out. We drop you off, and his ass is going to bed.”
“And where are you dropping me off?”
“You think I know?”
Next to me, the eldest brother lit a cigarette and
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