The Missing Girls of Little Saigon

Bullock and Johnson had been sitting in the Plymouth for hours, the monotony pressing down on them. The coffees Bullock had grabbed earlier had gone lukewarm, their stale scent mixing with the muggy air of the car. They watched the entrance to the Emperor Club, tracking the steady flow of men coming and going. Bullock drummed his fingers against the wheel, glancing at the club entrance for what felt like the hundredth time. Despite the rain outside, the car was stifling. He cracked the window, letting out the lingering smell of coffee and sweat.

"It's pouring out, Harv," Johnson muttered, side-eyeing him.

"I need a smoke," Bullock grumbled, pulling a pack from the dash. "And a break from your old-man stench."

He lit a cigarette, exhaling smoke through the small gap in the window. Another group of girls filed out of the club, but the goth girl still wasn't among them.

Settling into the driver's seat, Bullock threw a look at Johnson. "So, you've really never been to one? Not even before you met Rita?"

"I met her when I was fifteen," Johnson replied.

"Damn. That's a long time to be tied to the same broad," Bullock said, shaking his head.

"If you're lucky enough," Johnson said smoothly, sipping his coffee.

"And you never once set foot in a strip club?" Bullock pressed, more statement than question. "I guess that makes sense. Rita seems like the type who could throw a solid punch if she needed to. And you—" Bullock snorted. "Your skinny ass'd crumple like a piece of paper."

Johnson chuckled. "She could, and she would. But that's not why. I never felt the need."

"If all those boys met their wives at fifteen, they'd never have the need to," Bullock said.

"That's not what I meant. And as I'm sure you're aware, it's not just single men who go to strip clubs or pay for girls in the Narrows."

"A lap dance and a blowjob are different," Bullock said.

"Says you," Johnson countered.

"Says the law," Bullock shot back.

Johnson smirked. "It's all the same—smoking, drinking, gambling, pick your vice. It's all meant to mask an emptiness."

"What the fuck does that mean?"

"Why do you think those men go there?" Johnson asked, nodding toward the club.

"Naked chicks, cheap drinks?" Bullock said.

"I think it's more complicated than that," Johnson mused, taking a sip of his coffee. "Troubles in life weigh on a man, like a tightness in the chest. Beside every honest man is a dagger digging into his side. It's inevitable—so long as there's an easy way, there will be those who take it. And the ones who suffer are the ones who refuse. How a man suffers, what he suffers from, will be different, but the weight of it feels the same. Our vices, whatever they may be, lift that burden—even if just for a minute. But it's easier to indulge in our desires than to ask why we need them. Take away a man's vices, and all he's left with is himself and that knife stabbed into his ribs. Then he must ask himself how it got there and why."

Bullock chewed on the words for a second, then shook his head. "Those guys ain't that complicated. They just want to get their rocks off."

Johnson shrugged.

Their pagers buzzed simultaneously, breaking the moment. Both men unclipped them from their belts, squinting at the glowing screens.

"Urgent from the precinct," Johnson said.

"Yeah, same here," Bullock muttered, frowning.

He started the car, and the radio flickered on, filling the cabin with the deep rasp of a familiar voice.

"Jackman Wolf here, ladies and gents, giving it to you straight—no veils—"

Bullock immediately switched it off. "So, what the fuck's going on? Why are we being called in?"

"I can't say much, except things will be chaotic for a while," Johnson said.

"Fuck... is it about the freak? Did they catch him? Fucking neighborhoods'll throw a fit," Bullock said, pulling onto the street.

"That'd be a story, but no," Johnson said, staring out the window. "Don't forget we have those photos to pick up from the coroner."

"Yeah, yeah, I'll pick 'em up tomorrow," Bullock muttered.

The road was busy despite the hour, though not congested. Rain spat into the car while Bullock pulled open the ashtray from beneath the radio.

"You ever read Mari's column?" Johnson asked.

"That fucking nutjob chasing purse snatchers," Bullock scoffed, then confessed, "Yeah, sometimes I do."

"Mari says he's the answer to the city's problems—that he's avenging the city," Johnson said.

Bullock snorted. "Every loser out there thinks they're a fucking Robin Hood. Stealing shit, selling drugs—they all got their bullshit excuses."

"People like him," Johnson said evenly.

"People like crack too," Bullock muttered, tapping ash into the tray.

Johnson chuckled. "He's changing things out there."

"For a hot minute, but not for the long haul," Bullock replied.

"You're too young to be so cynical," Johnson said.

"Nothing can change when the worst of the worst control the game," Bullock said. "It's like you said, every honest man has a knife at him. When it cuts, most will cave."

Johnson took a moment, then replied evenly, "A dull blade can't sharpen itself, Harv."

"What the fuck does that mean?" Bullock asked.

"You need iron to sharpen iron, like a man needs men to sharpen his mind, to build a home... and defend it," Johnson said.

Bullock said nothing, focusing on the road ahead. There were some days he hated working with Johnson because he didn't just let him bullshit—he challenged him, and it annoyed him. The precinct came into view, the bright lights from the cheap slots illuminating the busy street. Drunks staggered along in the downpour.

Inside, the precinct buzzed with activity as officers flooded in from all over. As usual, Bullock chatted up some of the officers, exchanging stories and intel, before eventually heading upstairs. Homicide was bustling with movement, the empty desks slowly filling with grumpy men. As soon as Bullock and Johnson stepped off the stairs, Captain Gillis waved them into his office. Once inside, he closed the door behind them, his expression grim.

"I've got jobs for you two," he said without preamble, his tone leaving no room for argument.