Jack thought; his digestion was already not the greatest. The place was tiny and narrow, with just a few humble tables and fluorescent lighting that reminded him of the Kings County morgue. The only decoration was some garish film posters of brown-skinned he-men with impressive pompadours and veiled women with sultry eyes.
Jack pulled out a Polaroid of the victim in the deli. “Do you recognize this man?”
The owner took a nervous peek. “No, sir.”
“Have you ever seen him?”
“Never,” the man replied, too firmly, in Jack’s opinion. If the victim lived just a few blocks away, he had probably walked past here any number of times.
The owner wrung his hands. “I am sorry I cannot assist you.”
Jack noted a layer of sweat on the man’s upper lip, despite the moderate temperature inside the café.
Richie handed over a business card. “Thanks a lot. Please call if you hear anything about what happened yesterday.”
The owner nodded vigorously. “Yes, sir. Of course. Anything I can do to help.”
Now the two detectives were out on the avenue again, empty-handed. Jack took out a pack of gum and offered it to his partner. Then he unwrapped a stick, popped it into his mouth, and squinted off down the avenue. “I think that guy seemed kinda hinky.”
Richie scuffed something off the bottom of his shoe. “He was just scared.”
“That’s what I mean. Why would he be scared if he doesn’t know anything?”
Across the street, a yellow cab emerged from the open front of a car wash and a little crew of Mexicans rushed forward to dry and buff it. Richie walked to the curb and leaned against his car, an unmarked Crown Vic. Jack followed.
“You ever work a case around here before?” the local detective said.
“A couple. You don’t get many murders around here, what with all the devoutness.” The neighborhood, thick with East Asian Muslims, butted right up against Midwood, thick with Hasidic Jews.
Richie scratched at a little food stain on his tie. “I been workin’ this beat for eleven years, most of that on patrol. You know they call this Little Pakistan, right?”
Jack nodded. Brooklyn was dotted with all sorts of intensely ethnic enclaves: former Russians in Brighton Beach, Chinese in Sunset Park, Poles in Greenpoint …
“When was the last big case you worked here?”
Jack thought about it. “I don’t know, maybe five years? We had a nasty triple homicide over on Avenue C.”
Richie nodded. “I remember. A guy killed his wife and his stepkids.” He glanced around. “The thing is, the neighborhood has changed a hell of a lot since then. From the Pakistani point of view, it really hit the skids. Lots of stores and restaurants have closed down. The biggest mosque, not far from here”—he gestured south down Coney Island Avenue—“used to be so full that they’d have people praying on rugs right out on the sidewalks. Now they can’t even come close to a full house.”
“Why?”
“Two words: Nine-eleven. Before that, you couldn’t find a parking space because there were so many Pakistani people here shopping, eating, praying …”
“And now?”
“Almost half of them are gone.”
“Why?”
“After the World Trade Center went down, the feds ordered the community here to do ‘special registration.’ There were lots of Immigration raids. Tons of people got deported, and others skipped to Canada or other places because they were afraid of getting deported. Or arrested.”
“For what?”
“For any kind of suspicion. It was a lousy time to have brown skin. It still is. That’s why our friend in there”—he nodded back at the café—“wasn’t eager to take a look at the photo of our vic. The people around here are petrified of getting caught up in something that has nothing to do with them. They just wanna keep their heads down and go on with their lives. Nine-eleven totally screwed them over.”
Jack frowned. “I know most of the hijackers were Saudis, but weren’t
Jack pulled out a Polaroid of the victim in the deli. “Do you recognize this man?”
The owner took a nervous peek. “No, sir.”
“Have you ever seen him?”
“Never,” the man replied, too firmly, in Jack’s opinion. If the victim lived just a few blocks away, he had probably walked past here any number of times.
The owner wrung his hands. “I am sorry I cannot assist you.”
Jack noted a layer of sweat on the man’s upper lip, despite the moderate temperature inside the café.
Richie handed over a business card. “Thanks a lot. Please call if you hear anything about what happened yesterday.”
The owner nodded vigorously. “Yes, sir. Of course. Anything I can do to help.”
Now the two detectives were out on the avenue again, empty-handed. Jack took out a pack of gum and offered it to his partner. Then he unwrapped a stick, popped it into his mouth, and squinted off down the avenue. “I think that guy seemed kinda hinky.”
Richie scuffed something off the bottom of his shoe. “He was just scared.”
“That’s what I mean. Why would he be scared if he doesn’t know anything?”
Across the street, a yellow cab emerged from the open front of a car wash and a little crew of Mexicans rushed forward to dry and buff it. Richie walked to the curb and leaned against his car, an unmarked Crown Vic. Jack followed.
“You ever work a case around here before?” the local detective said.
“A couple. You don’t get many murders around here, what with all the devoutness.” The neighborhood, thick with East Asian Muslims, butted right up against Midwood, thick with Hasidic Jews.
Richie scratched at a little food stain on his tie. “I been workin’ this beat for eleven years, most of that on patrol. You know they call this Little Pakistan, right?”
Jack nodded. Brooklyn was dotted with all sorts of intensely ethnic enclaves: former Russians in Brighton Beach, Chinese in Sunset Park, Poles in Greenpoint …
“When was the last big case you worked here?”
Jack thought about it. “I don’t know, maybe five years? We had a nasty triple homicide over on Avenue C.”
Richie nodded. “I remember. A guy killed his wife and his stepkids.” He glanced around. “The thing is, the neighborhood has changed a hell of a lot since then. From the Pakistani point of view, it really hit the skids. Lots of stores and restaurants have closed down. The biggest mosque, not far from here”—he gestured south down Coney Island Avenue—“used to be so full that they’d have people praying on rugs right out on the sidewalks. Now they can’t even come close to a full house.”
“Why?”
“Two words: Nine-eleven. Before that, you couldn’t find a parking space because there were so many Pakistani people here shopping, eating, praying …”
“And now?”
“Almost half of them are gone.”
“Why?”
“After the World Trade Center went down, the feds ordered the community here to do ‘special registration.’ There were lots of Immigration raids. Tons of people got deported, and others skipped to Canada or other places because they were afraid of getting deported. Or arrested.”
“For what?”
“For any kind of suspicion. It was a lousy time to have brown skin. It still is. That’s why our friend in there”—he nodded back at the café—“wasn’t eager to take a look at the photo of our vic. The people around here are petrified of getting caught up in something that has nothing to do with them. They just wanna keep their heads down and go on with their lives. Nine-eleven totally screwed them over.”
Jack frowned. “I know most of the hijackers were Saudis, but weren’t
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