Lucky

by Henry Chang

  “Haha. That fuckin’ shotgun, boy.”

  They poured out the bundles of cash as the others gathered around. Say Low and Jadine got five thousand each for driving. More money came out of the Canton Gourmet so the split reflected that.

  The Lams pocketed ten thousand each. Cowboy and Jojo both got eight thousand.

  Lucky and Loo Ga scored twenty thousand each, dailo’s pay.

  He returned to the Asia Manor with his share of the loot. After dropping a tab of ecstasy, he stashed the cash in the duffel with the weapons. As the chemicals mixed into his blood he reflected on what he’d accomplished.

  He’d slapped them all: Charley Joe and the On Yee, the Ghost Legion, and the Canton Group. He’d put the Wo faction on notice too, ripping off the Temple Garden.

  Enough of sending messages, he thought, chasing the ecstasy with a swallow of XO. The only thing that could keep him from banging his way back into Chinatown was if the On Yees and the Wos paid him off—two million dollars for their precious notebook listing police payoffs and triad assassinations. The price would include him disappearing from New York. And not in a bad way.

  Fuck them, he thought. The price was cheap, peanuts in the global sense of criminal enterprise.

  Or they could counter with a million, which he’d take, and pay off his new crew before taking his talents elsewhere.

  The XO swirled in his brain and he imagined money on the table again, a big room full of gamblers and criminals.

  Perfect, he thought.

  Video

  Ronnie and Richie brought the videotapes from their restaurants for a private viewing in the On Yee assembly hall, arranged by Charley Joe and Dup Choy.

  In attendance were Woo Sik Kee, Kenny “Cigarette” Boy, and Ghost dailos Loy Sung and Taiwan. Two Wo triad officers stood in the back, looking at the two TV sets they’d placed side by side.

  Charley Joe ran the tapes simultaneously, showing clearly the coordinated robberies of the two restaurants. Although cued almost a minute apart, the videos showed six armed men, in two groups of three, raiding the two restaurants near closing time.

  “It’s Lucky,” said Charley Joe.

  “And that faggot Jojo,” added Dup Choy.

  “The motherfuckers threatened my wife!” said Richie.

  “They took more than eighty thousand from us,” Ronnie said. “Money that’s tied up with the credit union.”

  “Dai gor Loo Ga too,” said Taiwan, “from the old days.”

  “The tall guy, and the short guy? They’re brothers,” added Loy Sung. “They’re the guys we ran outta College Point.”

  “That’s the guy who broke my nose!” yelled Woo Sik Kee when he recognized Cowboy.

  “They’re driving a black car, full size,” offered Cigarette. “Older model.”

  “Twenty thousand on each one! Yee mon!” declared one of the Wo triads, upping the bounty all around.

  They considered forming a posse. Dup Choy wanted to lead a handpicked On Yee crew. The Wo clan wanted to bring in people from out of town, and the Canton group pushed for the Ghost Legion, whom they were already paying for protection.

  Arrayed against the Lucky Eight would be Dup Choy’s select hitmen, the Ghost crews under dailos Taiwan and Loy Sung, and the Wo’s long-distance guns. They were finally faced with having to deal with dailo Lucky, not only over the robberies but because he also still had their notebook listing twenty years of payoffs and assassinations.

  News and Clues

  His phone hummed, Vincent Chin’s number.

  “Hey, Chin,” Jack greeted.

  “Got another story from my Queens stringer that might interest you.”

  “Okay, shoot.”

  “He wrote it as an ‘Emergency Response’ piece.”

  “Right.”

  “Last night, around ten forty-five, calls to 911 from the Rego Park area. Reports of explosions prompted local responses by NYPD, Consolidated Edison, and EMS. No problems found at Con Ed substations, but NYPD reported that a car nearby was damaged and a Chinese restaurant had its window blown out.” Vincent paused, giving Jack a chance to digest the news.

  “The Chinese restaurant?”

  “Called the Canton Gourmet. 1888 Austin Avenue.”

  “The car?”

  “Unofficially, a yellow muscle car.” Gang boyz, figured Jack. Rolling in the 112th Precinct.

  “Anything else?”

  “That’s it, chaai lo,” Vincent said, and chuckled before hanging up.

  ***

  He called it his lunch hour, drove out to Rego Park. The only thing he could reasonably be sure of was the 911 calls received between 10:44 and 10:46 p.m. The stringer’s blurb said Area residents reported hearing two or three explosions and feared the nearby electrical substations had overloaded and exploded again. Con Edison techs responded but no damage was found. NYPD responded but declined comment on the continuing investigation. PD dispatch had notified patrol and officers responded by 2249 hours, 10:49 p.m.

  They watched as the workmen hefted the new glass window off the truck. Jack didn’t see the words Canton Gourmet anywhere and figured they’d stencil that in later. Different trades.

  “I heard an explosion,” said Ronald Chow, manager of the Canton Gourmet. “And then another one, and the window blew up. We were closing at the time. It was a shock. That’s all I know. I already told this to the police.”

  “And you don’t have a security camera, something pointed toward the street?”

  “No. I explained already. The recorder is being repaired.”

  “There was a car outside?”

  “No car.”

  “A yellow car?”

  “I don’t know. Didn’t see any car.”

  “No bong jai around?” The gang-boy reference seemed to baffle Chow, and while he searched for an answer, Jack knew he was hiding something.

  “I don’t know,” Ronald managed to repeat.

  Jack gave him his detective’s card.

  “Call me if you remember anything else.”

  He watched as the glaziers set the new picture window in place and started to seal the edges.

  “It’s good you have insurance,” Jack said. Ronald nodded and shrugged.

  “You always need to have insurance,” Jack said, “but the price keeps going up, doesn’t it?”

  Ronald shook his permed head, kept his stone face on.

  “Anyway, what can you do?” Jack asked. “Pray for peace, or pay for peace?” Jack felt Ronald Chow was being evasive, the Chinaman who dint see nothing, dint know nothing. And that was the way Jack left him, ignorant.

  The police report was just as sketchy. When patrol arrived there were no witnesses. Victims had no idea who the perpetrators were. No surveillance tape from the business owner, the Chinese restaurant.

  Outside the Canton Gourmet restaurant, patrol found a disabled car, with a flat tire and broken window, and marked with heavy shot. Not bird shot or skeet shot. Buckshot but bigger. Officers noticed several pellets embedded in the car’s side panels. A yellow 1990 Chevy Camaro, claimed driver Kin Hung Lee, who also claimed to have no idea who the shooter might be.

  They were permitted to drive the car to the nearest gas station to change the tire.

  And the nearest one was?

  The Sunoco on North Street near the highway was four blocks away, and the Sikh attendant did have a working security videotape setup, due no doubt to having been robbed multiple times. His tape showed the yellow Camaro pulling in at 11:03 p.m. with three Chinese men getting out and changing the left front tire. One of them is seen sweeping pieces of glass from the rear section.

  The license plate was clear enough.

  Jack believed one of the men was at the hospital when he took custody of Lucky. An older On Yee man, maybe a Wo, riding with Ghost gang boys
? What’s the connection? The young men might deal weed, or ecstasy, or club drugs like coke, but usually the older men, triad members, dealt in heroin, cheaper and more plentiful now, to every junkie chasing the dragon.

  On the drive back into Manhattan, he considered what he had tumbling in his head: a shot-out restaurant window and a shot-up muscle car. Along the way, he had a Wo old-timer, an On Yee handler, and an enforcer. He was waiting for the DMV check on Kin Hung Lee to come through but figured him for gang boy all the way.

  There’d been violence but no crimes. People with dirty hands and consciences never heard or saw anything, but the violence reminded him of Lucky’s style. Unexpected. Well timed. Minimal casualties.

  Let’s see how that works out! Jack mused.

  ***

  The plate number on the Camaro and the driver’s license of Kin “Kenny” Hung Lee were up to date, no problem. The problem was Kenny had two strikes on his youthful-offender record and was on probation. Having his car shot up wouldn’t look too good in his parole officer’s eyes, and he’d be headed back to Riker’s Island.

  Jack went to the home address on Kenny’s rap sheet and roused him. Feeling trapped, Kenny coughed up the answers quickly.

  “We wuz just cruisin’, making the rounds. We came to the restaurant and dailo yelled at a coupla guys on the street. He challenged them and one of them started shooting. Everyone ducked low.”

  “How many shots?”

  “Two, I think.”

  “Which dailo?”

  “Guy called Loy Sung. He got out and took aim but they took off.”

  “What kind of car?”

  “A black car, older model, like a Riviera but cheaper. Maybe a used Regal.”

  “How do you know that? It was dark out, wasn’t it?”

  “I know my cars, man! Night or day, nothing outruns my Camaro.”

  Jack wasn’t about to debate cars but was willing to bet that Billy’s souped-up Mustang could give the Camaro a run for its money.

  “So what happened at the restaurant?”

  “Got their window shot up?”

  “Don’t fuck with me, boy. It won’t look too cool when I perp-walk you in front of your homies.”

  Kenny shook his head and sighed.

  “They got robbed.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “There was a meeting this morning. At the On Yee Association. They had videotapes.”

  “Tapes from the restaurant?”

  “Both restaurants.”

  “Both?”

  “The other restaurant, in Jackson Heights.”

  “Who were the robbers?”

  “It was dailo Lucky. Got a new crew.”

  Jack smiled, the pieces of the puzzle falling together.

  “Who’s in the crew?”

  “He hooked up with a pimp named Jojo. And another ex–dai gor and three other guys. ”

  “What guys?”

  “Don’t know. They all outta Queens.”

  “You’re not out of Queens?”

  “Hell, no! I’m all about Manhattan, where it’s hap’nin’.”

  “What else happened at the meeting?”

  “Those boyz got a price on their heads now. And they forming a posse on them. SOS.”

  SOS was street slang for Shoot on sight.

  “What else?”

  “They think he’s in Queens somewhere.”

  “What else?”

  “That’s all I know. They made us leave so the big shots could talk it over.”

  Jack gave Kenny his detective’s card. “If I find out you’ve been lying to me, I’ll be back.”

  Kenny nodded and frowned as Jack left him, another fish too small to keep.

  When he got to the Fifth Precinct, Jack posted a Queens-wide patrol Bolo, a “be on lookout” cop alert for the older-model black Buick, possibly a Regal or Riviera. The only way to save Lucky from the gangland SOS, he knew, was if the cops got him first.

  Move

  The rain came down like bullets, rattling the metal frames of the Manor’s air conditioners. Outside the condo window, a somber gray overwhelmed the sky, covered the flat wet cityscape.

  Lucky repacked the duffel, everything from ammo to Uzi to Mossberg snug in place. He carried the Beretta in a holster clipped inside his waistband. Not your usual belly gun. He had everything else in the Samsonite rollaway, his fast-lane life reduced to compact luggage and a ready-to-go duffel.

  He’d found a rental apartment in Gramercy Park and paid a month’s cash advance. Having found a place near Chinatown, his focus narrowing, he planned to change the door lock and stash everything there.

  He’d leave the Regal on the back lot of the Asia Manor. They’d need a van jai for the next job, a hit, grab and run across the rooftops. Unlike the gambling basements on Mott Street, where they could escape through the unlocked connecting back alleys, courtesy of Cowboy’s construction master keys, the Tsun Jin gambling hall was on the second floor of a four-story building on the Lower East Side. The escape plan would be a rooftop dash toward Allen Street, and down some back stairs to street level. Say Low would be waiting in a step van.

  The rental apartment was located just above the hubbub of the East Village and farther north of the housing projects of Alphabet City. Nestled on Seventeenth Street, the apartment was far enough west from Irving Place to go unnoticed. A floor-through space in an old brownstone building, and more important, within striking distance of Chinatown.

  He hadn’t forgotten the bottle of XO, took a slug of it in the kitchenette cove and considered the layout of the Tsun Jin association’s gambling club.

  Until Tall Lam let loose with the shotgun, they hadn’t had to fire a shot, which meant the chance of his luck running out got bigger with each endeavor. But he needed to show his kickass bravado, bring the Ghost Legion back in line, or die trying.

  He didn’t expect to take down a thriving gambling house with less than his crew of eight, including Say Low driving the getaway van and Jadine in a backup car. But the logistics intrigued him. It could be another easy score, another notch for the crew, if everything went right.

  Cowboy would disable the rudimentary rooftop door locks of the adjacent buildings along the escape dash. In Chinatown, those locks would have been the simple hook-and-latch variety. If necessary, he could use his contractor’s credentials.

  Short Lam ordered earplugs for everyone, almost military grade and used by hunters and target shooters. Enough noise reduction—108 decibels—for shotguns but good enough for the flash-bang grenades too. Made in the USA. He’d painted the plug ends with a flesh-colored nail polish, making them almost undetectable in-ear.

  Jadine, playing Short Lam’s girlfriend, would smuggle in the flash-bangs, and Cowboy’s little gun, between her legs under her knee-length skirt. She’d leave them under the trash bucket in the toilet room. Short Lam would have his army .45 duct-taped to his inner thigh, and a paratrooper knife nestled in the small of his back under his loose rain parka. A half hour later, Jadine would bounce as Cowboy arrived.

  Two inside men in place, acting like they don’t know each other. Taking up positions after trips to the men’s toilet. Cowboy, scoping the back door. Short Lam watching the dealers, the control room. Loo Ga would enter with his Luger and target the managers.

  Lucky would follow shortly, with Jojo and Tall Lam in tow. The two most wanted backed by Mr. Silent.

  He figured the raid a 150, a hundred-fifty-grand hit on a holiday gambling weekend in Chinese New York City.

  It was the last stepping stone to Mott Street.

  Hello Goodbye

  He didn’t mind walking the two blocks from Eighth Avenue where the sai ba minibus had deposited him. The walking distance gave him space to breathe, clear his head. Just across the East River, his Sunset Park condo was
still far enough from Chinatown and the Lower East Side to give him a sense of escape and a hint of hope.

  By the time he reached his building, he sensed another presence, like a long tail following him. No one else on the street, though. Before he could key the lobby door, he heard Lucky’s disembodied voice.

  “Not bad, kid.” He’d forgotten he’d given Lucky his address. “Good to get out of Chinatown, huh? Too bad you had to cop out to get here.”

  Tat’s face appeared suddenly and ghostly from the shadows, framed by the cropped haircut that Chinatown gang boys favored, long on top, tight on the sides. The thickset body that followed next was vintage Lucky, a brawler’s body; he’d gained back the twenty pounds he’d lost in the coma.

  “Nice building tho. Shiny. No roaches. No stink. Got a good lease, I hope.” Lucky nodded toward the side street where Jack followed. In the dark alley, Lucky fired up a cigarette. “Heard you busted my car,” he said.

  “Heard you’ve been busting heads,” answered Jack. Lucky laughed, a long-ago teenage laugh.

  “Heard you were looking for me.”

  “Ha, I’m not the only one.”

  “Well, here I am. What the fuck you need, boy?” he said with a smile.

  “You still got a chance to get out.”

  “Not the witless protection again, puhleeze.”

  “I can get you out alive.”

  “And I can get you a promotion, right?”

  “You got problems with the On Yee? The Wos? I can help.”

  “Don’t need help.”

  “I can have their cars towed.”

  “Like you did mine?”

  “I can have their businesses cited. Issue summonses. Get them violated.”

  “Don’t need none of that.”

  “Need you to change your attitude. Save your own life.”

  “We had this talk already. But here’s some cheap advice. Stay the fuck out of Chinatown business. You ain’t built for it and you’ll just get hurt. Fuckin’ cops only get in the way.”

  “Guess I’ll see you in a box at Wah Fook then.”

  “Guess I’ll see you on Mott Street when you come down for your weekly red envelope.” He dropped the cigarette, crushed it under his heel. “Come my way, every day will be Chinese New Year’s, bro. The streets are paved with gold, remember?” He turned and quickly stepped toward a dark car idling lights off halfway down the street.