by Henry Chang
That could make it a homicide.
Jack took the plate numbers off the report, ran them in the computer-Motor Vehicles, Taxi and Limousine Commission. He crossed into personal overtime when the information floated up on the monitor. Gypsy franchise number 888. Jun Yee Wong. 444 Eighth Avenue. Brooklyn. Didn't match the victim's fact sheet.
SunsetPark.Jack's eyes twitched. About five blocks from his studio, in the Seven-Two Precinct.
Golo bit at his lower lip, tearing tiny pieces of skin from it between the edges of his teeth. He dismissed the gang boys and sat in the dark in the back of the clubhouse.
The Dragons had come back with keys and the driver's address from the car registration, but had left behind a body in the street and many witnesses. He decided not to use them again, the street boys having a way of complicating things. And they may have brought the police into this. He'd have to follow through by himself.
He scanned the papers taken from the triple-eight car. The address was in Brooklyn, around the new Chinatown, he figured. Wait until nightfall. And bring the Tokarev.
Clash
Jack buzzed across the Brooklyn Bridge, came up Eighth Avenue until he found the numbers he sought. The street was dead quiet, lined with four-story brick walk-ups that contained a Cantonese herb shop, a Malaysian bookstore, a Maria's Bakery outlet. All closed.
The lock on the door of 444 was loose. No doorbells, no inter- com.Jack jiggled the knob. After a moment, sure no one was on the street, he slipped his bankcard behind the lock and popped it.
Went up to 3A.
He listened for a few moments. No sounds from inside. He had started twisting the doorknob when the door swung in, just a crack. Unlocked.
Jack put his back to the hall wall, posted his badge, drew his Special. He pushed the door open with his foot, letting hallway light spill into the apartment. He reached in, flicked up the switch inside the door.
The apartment was lit by an incandescent yellow glow. Empty. Looked like someone took off in a hurry. Takeout food left behind. Clothing. Unmade bed. A toaster oven, small color TV. Chinese newspapers, racing forms, OTB bet slips.
Jack holstered the revolver.
A dead driver. A missing driver. Another dead body he didn't need. Turn it over to the Seven-Two.
The man appeared suddenly in the doorway, a Chinese man returningJack's surprise with a nod and a quick scan of the room before he turned to leave.
Six-two, maybe, Jack thought, tall fora Chinese. Jack caught him out on the landing, the man turning, his eyes focused on the badge.
"Ah Sook," Jack began, "uncle..
The man's hand shot up off his hip, surprisingJack, shoving him sideways. The man shifted as Jack twisted, spun in a small circle and folded down into a cat stance. Caught his breath. He thought he saw a pistol inside the man's coat. The tall man launched two sharp kicks atJack's head, grunting, forcing him to one side. The hallway closed in on them. Retreating, Jack kept his punches short, Wing Chun style, clipped the taller man under the side of the chin. The man retreated into a crouch then uncoiled in a lashing of Tiger Claw and Iron Fist that drove Jack backward onto the steps.
The man feinted a chop, reached into his coat. Jack reached behind himself for the Special. The man turned to run, a pistol coming out of his coat.
The hallway exploded with gunfire. The tall man ran, fell, rolled down the stairs clutching for the handrail, laying down a barrage of semi-automatic fire that pinned Jack to the stairs, gaining the time he needed for escape.
Before Jack reached the ground floor he heard the squeal of car wheels laying rubber across the avenue. On the street, he could barely make out the taillights fading in the distance. The tall man was gone.
Jack went back to check for bullet casings. There were nine, and also a smear of the tall man's blood on the banister, which he dabbed up with Alexandra's handkerchief. Jack never noticed, until he called in the incident to the Seven-Two, the thin trickle of blood that ran down his left arm and soaked into his shirt cuff.
Drift
The Holiday Inn was a mile from the Greyhound Terminal in Los Angeles, the last stop, just outside of Chinatown. Johnny checked in, tried calling Gee Man again. Nothing. Probably was out with the car.
He walked toward Chinatown, flexing the stiffness from his legs, feeling secure enough with the Ruger handy. He bought a Chinese newspaper, had coffee with cold dim sum. Then the picture in his head got huge, the headlines of the newspaper bringing sudden clarity: Revered Leader Murdered in New York. A two-page spread with color photographs of Uncle Four.
Mona, Johnny thought immediately.
Flow
Golo rubbed the pungent teet da jao, herbal liniment, into the bruise on his elbow until it was stained brown. He leaned over the sink and poured peroxide over the bloody gash on his left forearm, over the strawberry burns on his palm, scraped when he crashed down the stairs ducking the chaai lo's bullets.
Dew ka ma, fucker, he grimaced, applying white adhesive tape over gauze bandages.
He put on a dark suit for the funeral, and wondered how long it would be before the Red Circle inquired about their gold and diamonds.
Questions
The King Sin coffee shop was nicknamed "half ass," as much for the neighborhood dive it was, as for the second-rate oiliness of its home style cooking. It was a hole-in-the-wall joint, down from the park, on the edge of Ghost Legion territory. Six tables, a counter, a closet-sized short-order grill kitchen, and a cooler full of soda and juice.
Lucky looked inside, swung his gaze around, went in, looking back over his shoulder. Empty. The to wah kue, Chinatown old-timer, with the greasy white apron, plucked up his cleaver from the slab of beef in the steamer, nodding with a smirk as Lucky sat down. After a minute, the man served him a plastic plate of hom gnow, corned beef with boiled cabbage over rice, King Sin's best dish, available nowhere else in Chinatown. Lucky looked out the door to the street, saw the Ghosts in the park, felt the butt of the pistol taped to the underside of the table. He paused and seemed to compose himself for a serious undertaking, then began eating, fork to mouth, his eyes never leaving the door.
Jack stepped in and filled his view, took Lucky's gaze with him back to the small, grimy table.
Lucky put the fork down butJack spoke first. "I'm looking for a hitter, maybe fifty years old. Big guy, bald head, good with his hands. Shoots a big piece, a Nine. Gotta be from Chinatown."
"Tall man, right?" Lucky knew. "They call him Golo. Enforcer for the Big Uncle. Connected to the societies in Hong Kong. Hung kwun, bloody stick, all that shit."
"Sounds like you ain't a true believer."
"Red Circle Triad, big deal. It's all hocus-pocus to us. We don't give a shit here. We got the juice. Hey, Hong Kong's the fuckin' other side of the world, right?"
Jack nodded. "So where the fuck is he?"
"What do I look like? That guy on TV, the fuckin' Shell AnswerMan?" Lucky spit out. "And not for nothing, Jacky, but don't come here like this next time, okay? It don't look good, us together."
Jack looked behind him, saw the Ghosts in the park, got tip. "Tomorrow morning, after the funeral," he said walking out.
"Upstairs."
Dirge
The funeral was an elaborate affair befitting a leader of Uncle Four's stature in the Hip Ching hierarchy. A hundred black limousines shut down traffic for ten blocks all around Chinatown. All the radio-car boys were hired, their Towne Cars and Continentals trailing the Fleetwood flower-wagons, overflowing with wreaths and bouquets from every Chinatown florist.
Through the gray morning rain, the procession was led by a fleet of Cadillac Calais-class cars, which only the Chao Funeral House used, the owner having won the fleet from a heroin importer fronting as a car dealership. The line of cars was wet and dark, shimmering in the drizzle, like a long black snake curling its way through Chinatown. It stopped momentarily at the Hip Ching Association, then at Confucius Towers where Uncle Four had resided. At each stop a funer
al band played a plaintive dirge, and groups of Chinese women mourners whimpered together in the same tone, forming a low wail that sounded like the buzzing of bees.
On Mott Street the entire Ghost Legion wore black, two hundred members forming a shadowy wedge under the ominous sky. Local residents stood with their heads huddled together under umbrellas, like a sea of black bobbing mushrooms.
Fox News set up alongside Channel Seven, amid a phalanx of photographers from the dailies, who were perched on top of folding stepladders. The Federal boys-DEA, FBI, Treasuryhid openly in a brown Ford van with blacked-out windows, cameras whirring behind them. Conspicuous agents trying to look inconspicuous.
Jack stood on the corner of Bayard Street behind black sunglasses and watched as the last chapter of the old man's life unfolded.
What about the girlfriend? He flexed against the bandage the hospital had patched over his bicep, felt a dull stinging burn. The trail was twisting, getting colder, and he began to feel like he was losing it.
From translucent sky came a fine mist falling upon the scatter of umbrellas.
Then Lucky stepped out from among the Legion, blowing smoke, his sunglass eyes watching Jack scoping the procession. Lucky felt their eyes meeting, even behind the dark lenses, knew the cops were plodding around searching for leads. He laughed inside his head. Somebody caps a big shot, they gonna hang around? He scanned the Legion, an impressive show of solidarity even though he knew some people suspected a double cross. The truce? Up in the air. Until a perpetrator turned up.
He turned his attention back to Jack.
Jack was gone.
Now with horns blaring, the end of the long black procession cleared the red signal at the end of Mott Street and cruised out of sight.
Lucky crushed out his cigarette and left the street, a tide of black draining with him.
Warnings
Lucky stepped onto the Mott Street rooftop, Jack behind him.
"A long time since I been up here," Lucky said, scanning the city of rooftops, a cloud shadow passing beneath the wet sky. "So what the fuck is happening with you? How's the old man?"
"Buried him two weeks ago," Jack answered.
"Too bad how shit happens." Lucky frowned. "My old man, be better off dead. Fuckin' drunk waste of life."
They avoided each other's eyes.
"Anyway," Lucky spat out, "what's up? You didn't get me up here for old time's sake."
Jack saw the Brooklyn Bridge, the Lower Manhattan skyline. He said, without looking at Lucky, "You did me a solid. I owe you, so listen good to what I'm going to say."
Lucky shrugged his shoulders, listened.
"This is some heavy shit you're involved with. You think you're going to last forever? Remember Kid Taiwan? Mongo Jo? Riki Baby? All the dailo, big brothers, before you? They all thought they were big-time, like no one could touch them."
The Seaport, Brooklyn in the distance.
"They're all doing Federal time, Tat. Chinaman time. Everybodylooking-to-fuck you-over time. Time you get out, your dick will be too old to work."
He watched as Lucky smirked, flared up a cigarette, said, "If you're so concerned, just drop a dime, but let me know when they're coming for me."
Jack's eyes settled on the monolithic hulk of the Tombs Detention Facility.
"Can't do that, Lucky," he said in a voice like cool steel, "even if I knew."
Lucky mixed his words with cigarette smoke. "Don't bullshit me, man. You know the deal. The way you set up the Fuk Chings with the Feds, I know you got the juice."
Stroking me, Jack thought, running his knuckles across his eyebrows.
'just get out of the life before they come. Get out now. Yesterday. That's all I can tell you and I won't say it again."
"Thanks for nothing," Lucky sneered, "but I'll take my chances." He came close enough for the smoke accompanying his words to touch Jack's face.
"When Wing died, I learned two things. One, the only way to get anything is to take it. The only way you get respect is through power. Those who don't have power get out of Chinatown or they stay slaves. Second, the cops don't make a difference. They're just gwailo micks and guineas strolling the streets like they own the fuckin' place, call everybody chingchong wingwong, get a good laugh, right? You know it. They goof off for eight hours, write a few traffic tickets, then slide to the bar and swap Chinaman jokes. You remember, don't you? Cat fried lice? Tomaine lo mein? Hahaha. Fuckin' white bullneck mamalukes too dumb to do college end up as cops. Well, fuck that, and fuck them. We own the streets, not them. See, to me, to the boys, Chinatown is our life. Not a job, not a paycheck. Every minute, every day, we're here to stay."
Jack let him run on, enjoying it.
"Outside of here, we can't be nothing. But here, we can make enough money to be kings."
"Or die trying, right?"
"Try not to die trying," Lucky snapped back, crushing the cigarette into the roof wall. "You got a bug up your ass or what? You think you're Batman? Do good? Fight the gangs? Ha. Remember, Igot even for Wing. Not you. Not the cops. My boys took the Yings off the street. Forever. You know it, we took over."
Jack nodded. "Yeah," he said. "I know you did. So what? You became just like them, the punks that put the knife into Wing's heart. Just like them, you rip off your own people, and you deal poison to the junkies so they keep coming around fucking with our neighborhood. You brother-up with everything we used to hate."
Lucky did a slow circle around Jack. "When the fuck did you become Charlie Chan? You think it's going to be different because you're Chinese? That people here are going to give you more face? Respect you? You're part of the same corrupt shit, Jacky. The Blue Gang. NYPD Blue. Read the papers. Cops dealing drugs. Cops taking money. Cops fucking over anyone who ain't white. You heard of Rodney King? That badge don't make you no better, brother. You know the game. I get busted, half an hour I'm back on the street. You think you've stopped something because someone got arrested? Wake up, Jacky. See my side of things."
He stooped, matched up to Jack's eyes. "Chinaman cop. First sign of trouble, you'll be the first guy they give up. So what's with the cop thing? A steady paycheck? Trying to live large on chump change?"
Jack was silent, annoyance crossing his face, wondering how high the price would go. He leaned in, said, "Honest work, Tat. Something you wouldn't know about. Sure I know you think you're living large. Big-time bullshit gangsta hype. Doesn't your neck hurt looking over your shoulders all the time? I've seen you on the corner, shuffling, got your back to the wall. You sleep with one eye open. You got your gat under the pillow and jump when the phone jangles. You like living like that, big time? Living large?'
Lucky just smiled. "Come over to my side," he said. "Let's deal. What makes it work for you? Cash money don't move you? How about fresh pussy every week? You didn't go gaylo on me didja? Jewelry, fine clothes, a new ride? Can't touch it."
Jack frowned disdain into the corners of his mouth. "Won't touch it, brother," he said.
Lucky rolled on. "Like I said before, you don't have to do anything dirty. Just information, identification. Like that." A pause, then Lucky's eyes gleam sharp with an epiphany. "I get it. You can't admit what you want. All this brings some kinda dishonor to your cop thing. Okay, so go this way. I give you some inside dope, schemes and scams from the secret societies, who the players are, how it all works. You help the Feds take them down, be the big hero. You get promoted up the kazoo. Me, I don't care about that international I-Spy stuff. You give me information to protect my boys, and take out the local competition. I get them before they get me. That's all. You go up. I go large. Neither one of us gets trapped."
"Sure," Jack said finally. "Yeah, I'll think about it."
"But don't mistake the offer for weakness," Lucky said warily. "You wouldn't be the first cop on our pad. Not even the first Chinese cop."
Jack grinned, wondering which other Chinese cops were dirty? "Well, considering that this offer comes from a guy who's got all his c
ash stashed in a deposit box because he can't use the banks, and who's got everything leased or borrowed because his name ain't worth a shit, tell me why I should respect this offer?"
Lucky leaned in closer. "Because I know the way this game works. The same way I got the Yings out, you know I can make it happen. The information I get you will make you a lieutenant, a captain. You'll be retired before you're forty. With a cop pension. Retire like a big hero. Don't die broke and penniless like your old man, brother."
Jack stepped back. "Like I said, you should get out yesterday. You're only top dog until the next hungry Fuk Ching kid pops you just to make his bones."
Fuck you tugged up the corners of Lucky's mouth, contempt filling his eyes.
Jack looked east. "I'll think about it," he repeated.
"Well, take yourself a good serious think, man," Lucky chilled. "Because I ain't making this offer again. So don't bother coming back with a wire the next time we talk."
Their eyes battled a moment.
"And don't tell me you like being out there, dealing with the scummy low-life scabs of the city for sucker pay."
Lucky left Jack there, walked back into the shadow of the stairwell. The roof door slammed as he turned, went down the flights of stairs.
At the bottom landing, he looked back up to the skylight of the roof, didn't see any sign of Jack, frowned, and switched off the tape machine strapped to his groin.
Discovery
The woman agent in the Golden Lotus Travel Service tapped into the keyboard, scrolled through electronic data on the color computer monitor.
"We had someone come in last week," she said to Jack in Cantonese, "a woman who fits the description."
