Twin Cities Noir

The story suggested that the murder of Pa Chou Song and the subsequent arrest of Cheng Song by St. Paul police officers was an indication of how difficult it is for many in the Hmong community to assimilate to American culture. But that is not what distressed Benito. It was the photograph of Pa Chou that the paper printed—a decidedly small man in his late forties standing next to the doorway of a Hmong restaurant.

Benito was confused. He rushed to Mai-Nu’s house and knocked on her door.

“Who is it?” she called.

“Benito Hernandez,” he answered through the screen door.

“Come in. Sit down. I will be there in a minute.”

Benito entered the house and found a seat on the rust-colored sofa. There was a law book on the coffee table. Benito glanced at the spine—Minnesota Statutes 2005.He opened it to the page held by a bookmark. A passage had been highlighted in yellow.

524.2-803 Effect of homicide on instate succession,wills,

joint assets, life insurance, and beneficiary designations.

(a) A surviving spouse, heir, or devisee who feloniously

and intentionally kills the decedent is not entitled to any

benefits under the will…Property appointed by the will

of the decedent to or for the benefit of the killer passes as

if the killer had predeceased the decedent.

Benito closed the book and returned it to the table when Mai-Nu entered the room. He stood to greet her. She appeared more radiant than at any time since he had known her. Her smile seemed like a gift to the world.

Mai-Nu was tying a white silk scarf around her head. She said, “It is traditional to wear a white headband when one is in mourning.”

“Mourning for your uncle,” Benito said.

“And my brother.”

Benito was standing in front of her now, clutching the newspaper.

“Thank you for thinking of me,” Mai-Nu gestured at the paper, “but I have already read it.”

Benito showed her the photograph.

“This is your uncle?” he said.

“Yes.”

“Pa Chou Song?”

“Yes, of course.”

“It is not the man who came here that day. The man who beat you.”

“You saw him beat me?”

“I saw—”

“Did you, Benito?”

Benito glanced at the open window and back at Mai-Nu.

“I saw,” he said.

“And you told my brother?”

“I know now that you wanted me to tell Cheng what I saw.”

“Did I?”

Benito nodded.

“There is no evidence of that.”

“Evidence?”

“Did I tell you to go to my brother?”

“No.”

“Did I tell you not to speak to my brother?”

“Yes.”

“That is the evidence that the court will hear, should you go to court.”

“I don’t understand.”

Mai-Nu brushed past Benito and retrieved the law book from the coffee table. She hugged it to her breasts.

“In Laos, women are expected to submit,” she said. “Submit to their husbands, submit to their fathers, submit to their uncles. Not here. Here we are equal. Here we are protected by the law. I love America.”

“Who was the man who came here that night?”

“A friend, Benito. Like you.”

She reached out and gently stroked Benito’s cheek.

“You must go now,” she said.

A few minutes later, Benito returned to his bedroom. Dark and menacing storm clouds were rolling in from the northwest, laying siege to the sun and casting the world half in shadow. Mai-Nu’s lights were on and though it was early morning, he had a good view of her living room.

He did not see her at first, then Mai-Nu appeared. She moved to the window and looked directly at him. She smiled and blew him a kiss. And slowly lowered her shade.

IN MY EYES

BY BRUCE RUBENSTEIN

North End (St. Paul)

Lloyd B. Jensen’s funeral cortege wasn’t scheduled to leave the State Capitol for an hour, but a throng of thousands already lined University Avenue for a glimpse as it passed. The November sun wasn’t doing much to warm them so they’d crowded together instinctively, three deep, all the way to the police cordon at Rice Street. It gave them a huddled-masses look appropriate to the occasion. A cynic might say that in this year of our Lord 1934, anybody who advocated the redistribution of wealth could draw a crowd, even if he was dead. As for me, I voted for him once, and I’d have done it again if the iron crab hadn’t taken him down. I wasn’t there to freeze my toes for a peek at his corpse though. I opened the door of The Criterion. It was warm inside, a few bar flies were gathered around their Manhattans, and somewhere in the murk a client was waiting.