Lucky

by Henry Chang

  Jack wondered if the driver was Jojo or another of Lucky’s new crew. The sedan was off and away before he could get a good look at the rear plates. You’ll only get in the way, he heard his boyhood friend warning. Stay the fuck out.

  HAKKA Pre-synced

  The Tsun Jin association was an old-school tong, a Chinatown civic association that was also a front for racketeers within their own vast Hakkanese membership.

  They’d organized in the 1920s and had since maintained chapters globally: Hong Kong, Taiwan, Macao. Britain, France, Brazil. From Holland to Canada. In America, Tsung Jin operated chapters in Honolulu, San Francisco, New York City, Philadelphia, and Washington.

  Besides the gambling basement in their headquarters building on Division Street, they’d also expanded into high-stakes gambling games at a gambling hall on the edge of Chinatown. Word was that the Tung Sin faction was leading them toward the baak fun, chasing the dragon.

  For an organization that began with noble patriotic and military fervor, their main focus now was their myriad criminal moneymaking enterprises: gambling, loan sharking, extortion, dealing in illegal cigarettes and alcohol, immigrant trafficking, drugs, and contract murder.

  Unlike the Fifth Precinct, which was mostly Chinatown and Chinese, the Seventh included housing projects—the Rutgers, Baruch, Vladeck, and LaGuardia Houses—and the low-rent Lower East Side, twenty thousand poor and working-class people, mostly black and Puerto Rican.

  Friday and Saturday nights were the busiest for the Seventh Precinct patrol cops, with the minority inner-city enclaves blowing off a week’s worth of steam. Sometimes the steam turned to hot blood.

  They fell in behind a small group of gamblers waiting to be buzzed in.

  When they got to the second-floor door they would appear to be an odd couple: the older short guy with the young ditzy girlfriend, like an uncle dating his niece. Short Lam and Jadine passed the door goons with barely a second look. Aiyah weird people love to gamble.

  The room was smoky and the stark fluorescent strip lights overhead gave it a prison feel. There was loud banter from the rear table.

  Short Lam took it all in like it was slow motion—the ceremonial plaques high up on the walls, black-and-white photos of the Old Village, the Venerable Elders—his view drifting along to the big mirrored window of the control room at the far end.

  He estimated the crowd at the tables to be around forty people, early yet for the night crawlers but just before the end of every midnight waiter’s shift. With Jadine on his arm, he made a bet at the first table.

  Win or lose, they’d make three bets, play three hands, before moving on to the second table. He knew they were being videotaped from somewhere. They’d accept the complimentary shots of Johnny Red. Jadine would accidentally spill her drink on herself and then go to the toilet where she would place the flash-bangs and Cowboy’s gun under the trash bin.

  He won the first bet and Jadine clapped her hands like a silly schoolgirl. The hard-core around her were not amused.

  Cowboy looked thick and goofy and went along good-naturedly as they patted him across the shoulders and back before letting him through. He knew he was clean, so easy to play along. Easy enough access. What else could they do anyway, fondle my balls?

  He saw Short Lam and Jadine in place at the second table, playing high-low, and colors.

  He placed a bet for appearances. Win or lose he was going to the piss room to retrieve his gun.

  Loo Ga arrived a minute later, a Chinese logo on his company windbreaker and work pants. He looked and acted like a Chinese plumber who’d just gotten paid and was ready to throw down a paycheck’s worth of bets.

  They never suspected he’d have a Luger strapped under his balls.

  His arrival was Jadine’s cue to leave, go back to the car and wait. She mistakenly exited through the front door, distracting the guards just enough so Loo Ga faded easily into the crowd, a fistful of dollars in his gun hand.

  Game set, he thought, making his first bet.

  Three armed men on the inside.

  Three more come to the door.

  The flash-bang stuns the crowd.

  The shotgun and Uzi break out.

  It had started to rain, a light drizzle.

  They looked like two waiters and a kitchen helper fresh off the midnight shift. Lucky wore a deliveryman’s parka, and Jojo left his little black waiter’s bow tie dangling off his collar. Tall Lam ambled along in his dirty da-jop kitchen smock, with the sawed-off shotgun on a shoulder sling snug against his ribs.

  At the second-floor entrance, Lucky liked what he saw: Loo Ga ahead to the right, and Cowboy at the far end on the left near the exit.

  Jojo and Tall Lam ready behind him.

  He smirked and took a boxer’s breath through his nose.

  The two door goons were cockeyeing him before abruptly turning to the sound of Short Lam’s shout from the toilet door. Something flew through the air and landed on the middle table as the toilet door slammed shut.

  There was a confused hush from the gamblers.

  Lucky turned away just as the room exploded into blinding light and concussive force. Playing cards and poker chips twisting in the air. The smell of magnesium mixing with the cigarette and cigar smoke.

  Fuck yeah for the earplugs. He slugged one of the wobbly guards, knocking him out. He pocketed a revolver off him as Tall Lam took three steps in and swung the shotgun out from his smock. He aimed at the ceiling and squeezed the trigger.

  The blast blew out chunks of the ceiling panels, and anyone who hadn’t gotten the hint from the flash-bang grenade dove to the floor in terror.

  Jojo took a knife off the second guard and kicked him under one of the tables.

  Tall Lam racked the shotgun again.

  Several men lay moaning under the tables but everyone else scuttled and crawled toward the wall, where they huddled together.

  Short Lam came out of the toilet and helped Cowboy drop the exit guards as Loo Ga scooped money off the tables.

  Tall Lam calmly let another blast rip, shattering the control room’s two-way mirror window. Someone there yelled something in Hakkanese and a wild shot rang out from the room.

  Lucky ripped off a burst of Uzi fire that raked a jagged pattern of bullet holes across the front of the control window. No one fucks with an Uzi.

  “Go!” he yelled, joining Loo Ga and Short Lam as they rushed the control room. Jojo and Cowboy covered everyone else as Tall Lam smiled, racked again for the third shot.

  Inside the control room, two men lay on the floor, one apparently unconscious, the other bleeding from a shoulder wound. A third man cowered in the corner.

  Lucky yanked the terrified man off the floor, shoved him against the wall. The man cried out as Lucky smacked him across the head with the barrel of the Beretta. He was whimpering as Lucky pressed the pistol against his ear.

  “Money or die!” he growled, cocking back the nine-millimeter’s hammer.

  The dealer-manager—whatever the fuck—saw death in Loo Ga’s eyes and spun the safe’s dial with shaky fingers. He yanked the door open and fell back as Jojo shoved fat stacks of money into a duffel bag.

  Feeling like $100K, Lucky snatched up the duffel, zipped it. He stepped out of the room as the rest of the crew closed ranks around him. They were under fifteen minutes. Backing their way out, Loo Ga at the rear exit now. Stairway to the roof. The fire escape if needed. Duffel in one hand, Uzi in the other. Jojo behind him, with Cowboy watching the sides as the Lam brothers covered their escape.

  The table nearest the entrance suddenly overturned, errant gunshots erupting from behind it. In their crouching retreat, the middle table also flipped onto its side, some other Hakka playas coming alive now.

  Tall Lam shredded the first tabletop with a direct blast, blowing through it like it was cardboard. Lucky splintered the
second table bursting off the rest of the clip in the Uzi. Cries from behind the tables. Short Lam’s Browning barking out forty-fives added to Jojo’s nine-millimeter firepower as they spread out around the exit.

  There was no return fire this time. Taking advantage of the lull, several gamblers scrambled out the front door. There was yelling and then a gunshot from the stairs.

  Lucky slung the money duffel over his shoulder and put his last clip into the Uzi. He took a last look at the terrified gamblers huddled against the opposite wall, and kicked open the back door.

  Swinging out into the hallway, the metal door took several heavy bullets as Lucky gave Short Lam the nod. Lam pulled the pin on the flash-bang grenade, crouched behind the door and tossed it toward the front stairwell.

  There was a blast from behind him. Tall Lam giving table two some extra cover fire. Then the hallway erupted as the flash-bang exploded.

  “Go!” Lucky yelled, angling the Uzi behind the door edge and burping off the full clip as Loo Ga darted out. There was no return fire and Lucky bolted after him, the Beretta in his gun hand on the way up.

  He heard Jojo yelling something from below.

  They were almost to the fourth floor when the door to the corner apartment at the top of the stairs cracked open. Loo Ga took aim, hesitated. They ducked as gunfire flared out of the dark apartment.

  There was a shotgun blast from downstairs.

  “Down!” Lucky yelled, jamming off six nine-millimeter hollow points that forced the shooter’s door to close.

  Go! signaled Lucky, and Loo Ga ran up the last flight of stairs to the roof. Lucky kept his gun on the door as he followed past, backing his way up the stairs. Gunfire from floors below. He couldn’t tell if it was from the gambling hall or the stairwell. Another blast from down there. A real gunfight.

  Where was Jojo? he wondered. And Short Lam?

  Yelling from the stairwell. He could almost feel the footsteps thundering up.

  “Come on!” Loo Ga gestured frantically. Lucky tossed him the money duffel and slipped a fresh clip into the Beretta before following him onto the roof. They moved away from the door toward the adjacent rooftop, Loo Ga leading now with Lucky looking back for Jojo and the others.

  He took a breath, waited a moment. Loo Ga waving at him—Come on!—from the third rooftop. Halfway to Grand Street.

  Cowboy? The Lam brothers should be pulling out by now.

  He imagined the wail of police sirens in the dark night distance and started after Loo Ga. After a few steps he glanced back and saw the roof door open again. About time, he thought, expecting Jojo or Cowboy.

  But the figure that stepped out crouched into a combat stance and started firing at them. A second figure emerged and joined him.

  Where the fuck was Jojo?

  He waved Loo Ga forward and faded back, drawing the attackers to the Eldridge Street side of the rooftops. He knew he had a full clip in the Beretta, and though the Uzi was useless now, he also had the door guard’s revolver. Best to get to a neutral spot between them and the Grand Street rooftop.

  The two attackers split up, ducking behind the low walls that separated the buildings. Don’t get caught in a cross fire, and keep them in front. He drifted back along the roof ledge knowing he could hold them off until the others appeared.

  Loo Ga called out, already at Grand Street three buildings away.

  Ahead of Lucky were the pitch-black Chinatown rooftops, slick with rain from the moonless sky, the only lights twinkling in the far distance from the high windows of Confucius Towers, and the dim foggy glow of the scattered streetlamps forty feet below.

  The inky distance included chimneys and exhaust ducts, blocky skylights and hallway sheds that made everything a menacing silhouette, providing plenty of cover over the remaining forty yards of blacktop.

  He drew the captured revolver from his pocket and carried it lefty, starting a two-gun retreat as gunshots exploded from his left, behind some exhaust ducts. Expecting shots from his right, he held his fire and ducked behind a chimney stack.

  Another single shot from his left. A revolver? Like the shooter was saving his shots?

  Pau papau! rapid fire from his right. He could feel the bullets whizzing by him. A dark shape advanced boldly over a low wall, caught in the flash of his own gun barrel. A semiauto pistol . . .

  Lucky leaned out from the other edge of the chimney and emptied the Beretta. The dark shape fell with a thud, the man squeezing off three shots into the air before the pistol fire stopped for good.

  The Beretta was empty now and he tossed it, shifting the Hakka’s revolver to his right hand. He backed away from the chimney keeping his view open and his focus to his left. The second shooter. Where?

  A shot roared from his right, less than ten feet away. He rapid-fired until he heard the dry click of the empty revolver. Turning, he tossed the gun off the roof and sprinted along the edge. He hurdled the low wall toward the roof door on Grand Street, breathless as another volley rang out behind him.

  Say Low, he pictured, waiting in the van.

  The roof door just a short zigzag away.

  The others went to Jadine’s backup in the Suburban?

  Loo Ga waiting for him?

  ComeBack

  It always started slowly, with the deep drumbeat of dread in his head, followed by the clash of metal, cymbals and gongs, and the insistent cry of the cell phone or pager. Calling from the dead of night, the killing hours between midnight and 5 a.m., a night-crawler tour fueled by alcohol and despair, anger and violence.

  An urgent dispatcher’s voice. Manhattan South.

  “We got a hot shoot, respond to 49 Hester Street. Fifth Precinct.”

  A Hester Street address, back to Chinatown, the place that no longer claimed his body but was still recalling his soul. He shook the sleepy fatigue from his head, rolled his neck and popped the ligaments. He pulled on his clothes, grabbing the parka that held a disposable plastic camera and his service weapon.

  Adrenaline pumping, he jogged down to Eighth Avenue and jumped into one of the Chinese see gay cars that lined up near the all-night noodle shacks. He badged the driver, giving him the address in Cantonese while slipping him a ten-spot.

  “Go!” ordered Jack. “Faai di hurry!”

  The driver slipped through the shortcuts and weaved the black car across the Brooklyn Bridge, arriving at the corner of Hester and Allen in seventeen screeching minutes. Jack slipped the driver another Hamilton.

  From the service car he could see the flashing lights of the emergency vans leaving the scene, whooping their way back with the weekend wounded. He’d have to follow up later.

  An old fat sergeant ambled over as Jack approached the building, sizing him up.

  “You Yu?” he asked with a smirk.

  “Break it down, Sarge,” Jack said humorlessly flashing his badge. “Whaddya got?”

  The grin came off the fat cop’s face.

  “I was working traffic on Delancey so I was nearby when the call went out. When I got here there were Chinamen running out of the building everywhere, and two of them laying on the sidewalk.”

  Jack ignored the Chinaman bait, had no time for barbs with a cop reduced to directing traffic at midnight.

  “I called for backup. Two EMTs arrived first and tended to the wounded. Some others ran out the back, I think. It was too dark to see.”

  “What time was this?”

  “Twenty-four-thirty, something. About twelve-thirty.”

  “Go on.”

  “Backup arrived. Fifth squad. A car from the Seventh.”

  “That’s it?”

  “Well, Lower SpicTown jumped off tonight—Kings and Crips—guess that’s all they could spare.”

  “Then what?”

  “Then we went up, knocking on doors, the whole nine. Nobody spoke much English and no
one saw anything.” Jack shook his head, knowing the immigrant reluctance to get involved with the police. Especially gwai lo white police.

  “Now we got it covered front and back. Two guys checking the back alleys on the street.”

  “How many wounded?”

  “Two, far as I could tell. A few declined medical attention.”

  “Where’re they now?”

  “Dunno. They left when we went upstairs.” He caught Jack’s frown.

  “How many dead?”

  “Four. All Chi-nese. ME’s been notified. Just waiting on the wagons now.”

  “Let’s go,” Jack said, his adrenaline juicing him as the sergeant followed him into the building.

  He caught his breath at the top of the long flight of stairs, stood in the open door and took out the throwaway camera. He’d always wanted his own impressions of a crime scene, didn’t like depending solely on the CSI technicians.

  There were bullet holes everywhere, shattered glass, obliterated wood tables. Gambling debris, cards, and plastic chips scattered about. The air smelled of burned metal and tobacco and blood.

  He framed the shots in his mind.

  Behind one of the perforated wood tables, a male body lay lifeless, bleeding out from multiple frontal wounds. There was an empty thirty-eight-caliber revolver by his side. A wide shot. He brought the camera closer. Chinese. Fortyish. The snapshot better than a chalk outline.

  The second body was in a narrow room at the far end, behind the shattered mirrored-glass window—an old man slumped beneath a table. Jack didn’t see any physical trauma, and there was no blood on him at all. The medics had pronounced him. Later, the examiner would figure out the how and why.

  On the table was a cracked video recorder that looked like it’d caught a couple of pellets from a shotgun. He took pictures anyway, figuring to check it on the way back.