by Henry Chang
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. Everybody-looking-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, I got 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 cash 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.”
“Last week?” Jack kept his cool, stared over her shoulder at the digital waves.
“Might have been Thursday or Friday. I had the weekend off and only saw your fax message this morning.”
“What did she look like?”
“She wore black, short hair. Never took her sunglasses off.”
Her eyes flickered. “Here it is.”
Jack breathed through his nose, measured his breaths.
“It wasn’t Mexico. Or Canada. She booked one seat one way to Los Angeles. Greyhound Bus. The Holiday Inn near Chinatown.”
“Under what name?”
“J. Wong,” she answered.
“When?” Jack asked as she tore off the printout and gave it to him.
“Should have arrived today.”
Jack smiled, thanked her.
“The Department will be in touch with you regarding the reward,” he said. She appeared happy as he left her little office.
When he got back to the 0-Five, the phone on Jack’s desk was ringing, a call the switchboard patched through from the Translation Project downstairs. The voice was Cantonese, a woman speaking with a Hong Kong accent.
“The man you are looking for was the Big Uncle’s driver. Jun Yee ‘wong jai,’ kid wong. Wong,” she repeated.
Jack tried to stall her for a trace but she repeated the name once more and hung up. JunYee Wong, he realized, the missing radio driver from Brooklyn. The circle was shrinking.
Downstairs, they got a partial area code off the call. 303. Best guess was somewhere in Colorado. Colorado?
A crank call? The mistress. Then who was enroute to Los Angeles?
Jack decided to install a caller ID device, his head piecing together scattered impressions of a missing woman. His eyes ate up the travel agent’s printout before he made the call.
The long-distance male voice was brusque, efficient, no-nonsense. He said, “Like, this is LA, buddy. We’re five minutes outside of Chinatown so, yes, we’ve got lots of Chinese men, and women, in lots of our rooms. I can’t give you that kind of information over the telephone.”
Jack identified himself for the second time.
“Yes,” the voice continued, “NYPD. So you say, but on this end I don’t know you from Joe Blow citizen. You get my point of view?”
“Can’t you even confirm if it’s a Chinese man, or woman, in that room?”
“Can’t do it. Suppose I tell you and someone gets killed?”
“Suppose you don’t tell me and someone gets killed?” Jack growled.
“Not my problem.”
“Thanks for nothing.” Jack slammed the phone down. He considered reaching out to LAPD, but worried about spooking the fugitives, losing his shaky leads to the mistress and the driver.
Then he heard the transmission coming over the static on the squadroom radio, crackling something about Major Case coming in on the Uncle Four killing. Bringing in the Big Dicks, sliding him into the background.
He knew that was how it worked. It’s not that the Fifth Squad can’t be trusted. Operations wanted more experience, older dicks from Manhattan South.
Jack tuned out the thought, unofficial as it was, and started considering the time difference versus the flight time to Los Angeles. Then the squadroom door swung open.
Distance
The old men entered the storefront at 8 Pell in single file. They removed their hats, sat down, caught their breaths. Five gray-haired men looking out on the street where they lost their youth.
The hung gwun, enforcer, Triad red-pole rank, had requested their presence here in the clubhouse instead of meeting formally at 20 Pell, to save the old gentlemen three flights of stairs, and to ensure the privacy of the meeting.
Golo came around the partition and quickly offered his respects to them. He spoke quickly, to the point.
“There is a woman involved in this. Perhaps some of you have seen her?”
A pause as the old men pretended to search their minds.
“Alert your secretaries. You must offer a reward for information, contact all Chinese travel agents, but keep her out of the newspapers.”
“A bounty?” one of the elders asked.
“If you prefer, Uncle, to put it that way,” Golo answered respectfully before continuing.
“You must contact your counterparts in Los Angeles, San Francisco, Vancouver. Also, all East Coast Chinatowns. They must send people to cover the main airports. But don’t neglect the bus terminals, the trains, the hotels and motels nearest our communities.”
The old men paid due attention, respect owed to Golo for his efforts in the aftermath of the murder of their leader. They understood. The eldest rose from his wooden chair, the others followed, nodding, putting on their hats.
Golo gave them sheets of paper with Mona’s and Johnny’s profiles worded in Chinese, like an invitation. He followed them out of the storefront and watched them go down the street into the double doors of Number 20. His watch showed late afternoon, and he wondered how far away Mona, and his cache, had gotten.
The Liner slipped down into the Valley.
Utah passed in the darkness, craggy headlands, rolling plains under moonlight. Mona slept a troubled sleep, a nightmare with ghost coolies, bloody pickaxes, Chinese women and children screaming, murdered in the night.
The train sliced through the flat vastness of desert, hot and bone dry, the vistas so sunny she put the Vuarnets back on. The desolate beauty caught her. Nevada flashing by made her feel she could start forgetting New York.
She napped until there was a stop at Reno; the sunshine fell onto the desert. The Sierra Nevada rolled up, then dropped from granite into a fertile sunlit valley on the western shore.
The California Zephyr drifted to a stop in Oakland before noon.
Mona waited until the Chinese families passed her compartment, then emerged and fell in behind them. No one would be able to tell she was traveling alone.
Seventy-two hours from New York, she briskly crossed the platform, the Hermès scarf moving now, pulling the Rollmaster on a march through the Bay Area Rapid Transit system in the direction of Chinatown.
Pursuit
The Chinese lowriders in the red Trans Am wore tight perms and biker sunglasses, faded denim jeans and baggy shirts opened to gold bar-link chains around their thick necks. The grumble of the car died as the three young men inside walked out under the hot L.A. sun and crossed the parking lot, jostling each other, into the Holiday Inn.
Johnny stayed in his hotel room, rereading the newspaper. Uncle Four’s funeral, biggest in Chinatown history. The Chings were going to be hot, seeking Mona, Johnny realized, and L.A. didn’t seem like the place to stop. His mood swung, he readjusted his identity from partner to accomplice. He’d scored the gun and that tied him in.
Partners, she’d said, the word ringing in his ears. Yeah, he thought, partners in crime.
He came to a news item about a dead radio-car driver, which stopped his heart a beat. Gee Man, a heart-attack victim, dead near the Lincoln. In that moment he felt the weight of their pursuit, how deadly serious they were, after him
also.
He went to the lobby and rented a car, paid cash in advance. When he drove it off the lot he passed a Trans Am, blood red, parked off the main entrance. Like a bleeding shark with dark window eyes. It reminded him of New York.
He parked the rental car outside his room window, nervously came back to the lobby. There was a crowd of Japanese tourists in Hawaiian shirts, a group of Chinese Kiwanis. A Cub Scout pack.
He thought he spotted some perm cuts or sunglasses that could be L.A. Ching boys. He didn’t think they saw him, but he didn’t feel so safe anymore.
Slipping back inside the room, he checked the Ruger, got whiskey from the honor bar, sucked the little bottles down while waiting for Mona’s call.
Moves
The afternoon was sunny when Mona descend from the Thruway bus in San Francisco, flagged a cab, gave the driver a slip of paper that said San Rema Motel.
The San Rema Motel was a converted warehouse at the fringe of Chinatown where it stretched into North Beach and rose into Russian Hill.
Mona took a room on the middle floor, facing the courtyard so she could see who was entering, so she could exit up or down with ease.
The landings which connected the two sections of the motel gave onto numerous exits at the front and back of the complex.
She checked the three best routes: from the landings, from the roof, the garage. Stockton Street was the main north-south thoroughfare, leading south to the airport, or north toward the Bay.
She lit a cigarette and took a long drag. Stockton, she was thinking, would be the way to go. She changed into a gray sweatsuit and sneakers, took a bus down to the Business District.
As in New York she found a travel agency that was American but employed a jook sing, American-born Chinese girl, who spoke enough Cantonese to be of help.
Two blocks outside Chinatown she found a convenience store where she purchased a sheet of gay pay ji, plain brown wrapping paper, packing tape, a black marker.
At the San Rema, Room Service delivered a fifth of brandy. Mona nestled the Titan into the Chinese box, was pleased with the fit, then reassembled it with the silencer, the little clip of bullets. She took a taste of the brandy, caught her breath again. Put everything into the Rollmaster. It was almost two, and she thought about calling Johnny, to be sure of what was going on with him. She put on her Vuarnets and went out onto the sunny slope behind the motel.
