Red Jade

by Henry Chang

  He scanned the dark cement box of a room, closed his eyes when they reached the bars across the front of the cell. He took a deep breath, and again thought about how his life had come to this.

  During the first few days of chor gom, prison, he’d been mixed in with the hok gwai, black devils, and the loy sung, the lowlife Spanish. They’d mocked him by pulling back the corners of their eyes, taunting him, Egg roll! Bruce Lee!! Fock you ass, Jackie Chan! Ching chong! Some of them menaced him, sizing him up to rob him. A few sadists regarded him as fresh meat, stared him down with hard faces, the way long-term criminals devour new prisoners with their scowling, man-raping eyes.

  Johnny had steeled himself mentally; he wouldn’t go down easily, would set an example.

  Suddenly, he’d gotten transferred to the Central Punitive Segregation Unit, a maximum security single-cell jail. Protective custody. Protective? he’d wondered. From whom? Everyone, he’d realized. Now he was kept from the general population, confined to a six-by-nine-foot cement cage, with a wall bunk across from a metal toilet bowl.

  And Shirley Kwan singing.

  He remembered purchasing a radio car hookup from the Taxi and Limousine Commission. The overnight limo deal, jockeying the black Lincoln, had prospered, until he made a mistake. He’d broken one of his cardinal rules: never get involved with the paying customers

  He’d been taken in by her beauty.

  Smoldering anger and shame still flared up inside, but he knew it was his own fault. He’d been the greedy fish who’d taken the bait. He’d been socking away cash until he got mixed up with the client, the Fat Uncle’s lady, his alluring mistress, Mona. He’d been seduced by the tragedy of her story, her past and her present life of suffering. And, of course, by her sexual beauty, her sensual lovemaking.

  The other night drivers had never caught on.

  The instant that he entered her, never realizing he’d been sucked in, had led to his present state: imprisoned for a crime he didn’t commit. All his grand dreams—a take-out counter, a Wah Wah Bakery franchise, the coin Laundromat deal—gone. All gone. Eventually, he’d have to sell the Lincoln, and move on.

  Now his life was in the hands of other men: a Hip Ching tong officer, and a fancy gwailo, Caucasian, lawyer. Johnny had gotten over his initial rush of hysteria, had resigned himself to his fate, trusting that the tong agent and the white lawyer would work successfully toward his release.

  They’d wanted to find the victim’s mistress, the woman known only as Mona. Johnny had helped their Chinese artist draw a likeness of her, a pretty face pulled from the intimate memories he’d had of her. The artist had been forging copies of Rembrandt and Vermeer, and his rendering was far better than a mug shot. Johnny had revealed conversations he’d had with Mona, described her fashion sense, anything that might provide a clue.

  Protective custody.

  He didn’t understand how or why, until he’d met the two men in the interview cell. They had made all the arrangements somehow on the basis of some phone threats against him that had been called into the prison. So they’d had to move him, per regulations.

  Now Johnny had a small semblance of the creature comforts of Chinatown. He’d survived these four months in the cinder-block cell because the two men had arranged for him to get twice-weekly rations of lo mein and chow faahn, fried rice, packs of Marlboros and oolong tea bags, Chinese newspapers and magazines. Most of all, he found comfort in the transistor radio with the special chip embedded that brought broadcasts from Chung Wah Chinese Broadcasting into the prison.

  He knew when his care packages of supplies arrived by the smell of fried rice and egg rolls wafting over from the guards’ locker room. One of the black guards had given him a packet of extra batteries for the radio, and started calling him “Mister John.”

  They’d assigned him a half hour each day alone in the exercise yard. He practiced some tai chi exercises, smoked cigarettes, puzzled over where Mona might have gone. He hoped the frigid wind of the yard was somehow touching her also.

  After almost four months, Johnny realized that the Hip Chings weren’t going to muster up the million-dollar bail bond until they had a handle on the whereabouts of the mistress. Anything that came to mind, he’d let them know. Both men were always encouraging during their visits, insisting that the Hip Chings were determined that “justice be served.” With Johnny’s help, they’d certainly find her, and in turn, he would be set free.

  “It’s only a matter of time,” the Chinese tong man always said. The way he put things, it was always when he’d be released, when they’d find the woman, when they could help him relocate and start anew.

  Dangling hope like a three-section flail, an iron kung fu whip.

  He dreaded the feeling that his life was in the hands of these two men. Still, he needed them as much as they needed him, if not more.

  A marriage of necessity.

  The Caucasian lawyer’s part was to manipulate the law during his incarceration. The tong yen, Chinese man, managed the Chinese side of things, helping to sublease Johnny’s black Lincoln out to the funeral drivers so the car would continue to make money even as he sat in prison.

  They’d even paid his monthly rent on the apartment in Brooklyn’s Chinatown.

  They’d wrapped their control around him like a closed fist.

  His emotions came back around to anger. He was mad at himself for falling for Mona’s promises, her lies. His bravado, greed, and foolishness had brought him to this cinder-block cell, in this penal colony of hok gwai and loy sung.

  Dew! Fuck! he cursed silently as he remembered how he’d helped her buy a gun off the streets, even loaded it for her. He’d left his prints on the spare clip while she’d sucked him, and suckered him.

  Deadly thoughts pulsed inside his head, keeping him awake. Fatigue only brought back images of her glistening naked body against his, her pretty head twisting and bobbing over his groin, until finally black-out sleep swept over him and obliterated the bars of the prison cell.

  “Yo, Mister John! Meeting time!”

  The guard’s bark jerked Johnny into consciousness, brought him to sit up on his bunk, staring into the shiny white teeth grinning at him.

  “Yo. Fried rice tomorrow?” the guard said.

  Johnny nodded and smiled back, saying “Tomollo, okay.” He stood, massaging the back of his neck with stiff fingers, trying to press out the tension locked there.

  The steel cell gate slid open with a bang and he followed the guard to the interview room. There was a disinfectant smell in the air as they went down the dimly lit corridor.

  Law on Order

  Johnny’s gwailo, Caucasian, lawyer, whom he knew as “Leemon,” wore a charcoal-gray suit and stared at him with blue shark eyes from behind the metallic briefcase he’d opened on the interview table.

  Next to him sat brother Tsai Ming Hui, who looked as if he were in his late twenties like Johnny himself, and who, representing the Hip Ching Benevolent Association, was involved in his defense. Ah Tsai’s wire-frame eyeglasses and combed-back hair made him out to be a manager or administrator for his tong sponsors. What rank, Johnny could not determine.

  They believed in his innocence but needed to find the missing woman.

  He’d had no other recourse from his Rikers Island cell.

  As always, they’d reassured him that they’d obtain his freedom, and assist him in relocating elsewhere. Like a witness protection program, he imagined.

  The lawyer, “Lee-mon,” made announcements in gwailo English that Johnny couldn’t understand.

  “I’ve filed another motion to reduce bail,” Sheldon Littman said, glancing at Tsai, “or to get you transferred to the federal lockup on Pearl Street. I feel they’re backing off murder one but we’re not accepting manslaughter, either.”

  “We’re trying to get you to a better jail, near Chinatown,” translated Tsai. “Your lawyer feels that the prosecutors don’t have a case.” Tsai turned away from Littman, saying, “Also, about t
he bail: the association’s member’s restaurants proved to be unreliable as collateral. Too many silent partners.”

  Johnny nodded, disappointed. He’d heard a similar claim during their last meeting.

  “We’re canvassing the membership,” Tsai continued in a confidential tone. “For houses, family homes we can use toward the bond. We’ll have to wait and see.”

  Johnny had also heard this before; different words, same meaning. He noticed Lee-mon observing Tsai go, curious about the long translation of his own brief statements.

  Tsai turned to Littman, saying in his Hong Kong English, “Don’t be concerned. I am keeping his hope alive.” He smiled. “It is a Chinese thing.”

  Littman narrowed his eyes at Johnny, cracked a crooked smile. Tsai, turning back to Johnny, continued, “Now, you said you remembered something.”

  Johnny hesitated.

  “Don’t worry,” Tsai reassured him, “he doesn’t understand Cantonese.”

  Johnny took a breath. “I had a dream,” he began. “Maybe it means something”.

  “Go ahead.”

  “She had a lot of different jewelry, I remembered, but she always wore a jade charm. Hanging off her wrist. It was white and gray, with pa kua, Taoist, designs on it. Round, like a coin, a nickel.”

  “Was she religious?” asked Tsai.

  “I don’t think so. But I heard her praying once.”

  “Praying?”

  “Like chanting.”

  “Buddhist?”

  “Maybe. She did it low, almost whispering. And she stopped when she became aware of my presence.”

  Tsai was silent. Buddhist, he thought, so it would be wise to check Chinatown temples.

  Littman interjected, “Tell him what we’ll do to the Chinese cop on the stand, once he mentions the missing lady. The person of interest.”

  Tsai didn’t let his annoyance show, but instead smiled quietly at the intrusion.

  “Your lawyer,” he translated, “assures you the courts will rule in your favor.” He nodded at Littman, who seemed pleased.

  The Chinese cop, Tsai remembered, the American-born Chinese, the jook sing, empty piece of bamboo. They would dredge up his tainted career, his Chinatown misadventures, and destroy his credibility.

  “Time’s up!” yelled the prison guard, opening the door of the interview room with a bang.

  Littman shook Johnny’s hand, saying, “No worries, be patient,” and watched as Johnny shuffled back toward his cinder-block cell.

  Tsai stayed behind Littman and followed the guards out, thinking, Buddhist temples and Chinese jewelry stores.

  Back to the Future

  The long detail in the Chinatown Precinct had exhausted Jack. He was happy to be back on days in the Ninth, the 0-Nine.

  The previous day’s reports were loaded up on the computer blotter: A teenage wolf pack of a dozen black and Latino youths had assaulted and robbed a Russian immigrant couple in the Alphabets. They’d smashed the man over the head with a brick, and were attempting to rape the woman when patrol arrived and scattered them. On the outskirts of Chinatown, an Organized Crime Control Bureau detail raided a warehouse and confiscated seventy-five thousand dollars’ worth of bootleg and contraband cigarettes. Fake Camels and Marlboros from China. The Ghost Legion was involved somehow, thought Jack. Earlier, a man stabbed another man in a Chinatown nail salon. Ming Chu, twenty-six, knifed another Asian man and was charged with second-degree attempted murder and first-degree assault. The motive was unclear. In the East Village, a crew of thugs robbed a Korean deli, wounding the owner’s sister. In NoHo, two illegal Chinese nationals were arrested for making high-end purchases with counterfeit credit cards. The two were caught with sixteen bogus credit cards in their possession.

  The three Chinese-involved cases had Prosecutor Bang Sing’s name attached to them: he was a Chinese ADA saddling up against Chinese criminals the same way that Jack was pitted against the Chinatown underworld.

  Woman Warrior

  The shooting space consisted of eight shallow stalls, each with a small counter that looked out over twenty-five feet toward the target end of the range.

  Alex saw a series of paper targets clipped onto cable wire, vibrating to the concussion of multiple volleys and staccato bursts of gunfire. Stepping inside the enclosure, the shooter already had “ears” on, noise-canceling headsets that muffled the continuous explosive gunshots from the stalls, where civilians and professionals blasted away with everything from .22s to .9-millimeters to .45s. A deafening barrage of deadly projectiles.

  The smell of cordite and gunshot residue filled the air.

  The shooter usually clipped a target to the wire, reeled it out to a desired distance, and donned protective eyewear. Weapons were loaded and reloaded on the small countertop as shooters settled themselves, preparing to fire away.

  Alex leveled the Smith & Wesson Ladysmith, taking a breath as she focused on the large body target ten feet away, a threatening dark silhouette. Using a two-handed stance, with her free hand cupped under her gun fist, she felt the fight of the trigger, and squeezed off a one- and a two-shot burst. Paused. Then two more. Bam! Bambam! Bambam! And she still had three shots left in the model 317 Airlite, an eight-shot .22-caliber revolver that Jack had recommended. It weighed less than ten ounces on an aluminum alloy frame, had a black rubber grip, and a smooth combat trigger. Eight shots from a revolver was a definite advantage, and the piece fit nicely inside her designer handbag. The high-velocity long-rifle bullets could rip a hole through a phonebook and still take out an eye.

  Jack had warned her, “You shouldn’t be capping anybody more than ten feet away. Otherwise, it ceases to be self-defense. And don’t go chasing after them, either, for Crissakes.”

  Alex chuckled at the memory, put the gun down, and reeled in the target. She ran her index finger over the little holes in the black-paper torso-shaped target: a single hit on the right shoulder, then two more across the breastplate, grouped closer together. The last two only an inch apart, just under the heart.

  The way Jack had taught her: Shoot to kill. Or don’t shoot at all.

  The .22-caliber load, even with the high-velocity rounds, had very little kick and was easy to handle. Alex had developed a relaxed natural style, letting loose a volley from different defensive positions: combat conditions. She even felt she could make a torso hit shooting from the hip.

  “Yeah, right,” Jack had teased. “A real Annie Oakley.”

  She looked over her shoulder as gunshots thundered from the stalls around her, saw Jack on the other side of the Plexiglas window. He was smirking and giving her a thumbs-up.

  She flashed him a small wave of her hand.

  “Freakin’ too good,” Jack whispered to himself, watching Alex through the big picture window that opened on six of the dark stalls, part of the soundproofed dividing wall that separated the lounge area from the target range. She was wearing a dark outfit—black vest and jeans—which reminded Jack of an avenging angel.

  The lounge area consisted of a soda machine, a bathroom, and a long couch where members could sit and wait if the place was fully occupied. There was a stack of gun magazines on a folding table: Hunting Guide; Sportsman’s World; Competition Shooting.

  Alex was beginning to shoot instinctively, Jack knew, becoming one with the little lady’s gun that was lightweight but deadly. He knew she could make Swiss cheese out of some punk-ass wilding gang looking to jack some weak Asian woman.

  The shooting club was managed by Alvin Lin, a thirtyish ABC—American-born Chinese—who was even more jook sing, empty piece of bamboo, than Jack. He was a real Chinese cowboy.

  Alex shot eight cycles of the five-shot sets, and finally banged off the extra three rounds into a two-inch grouping just beneath the target’s abdomen. She loaded the last four bullets into the Ladysmith, keeping seven shots ready but leaving empty the eighth, the firing pin chamber.

  “In case you drop it,” Jack had explained, “so it won’t go off.”
>
  She nestled the gun into its case, locked it. Coming out of the shooting area, she took off her “ears” and eyewear, the revolver cooling in the metal box.

  “Got done quick, huh?” teased Jack.

  “Yeah, I shot the box,” she quipped. “What, you expected me to go to war in there?”

  Jack grinned. “No, but I’m glad you got it off your chest.”

  “Right. And how much GSR is on my arm right now?”

  “C’mon,” Jack said, laughing. “You’re watching way too much Law and Order.”

  They decided to go to the East Village for sushi and sake, but Jack’s cell phone trilled the moment they left the gun club. Alex caught Jack’s end of the conversation, and knew their plans were about to go awry.

  “He asked for me?” questioned Jack, a puzzled look crossing his face.

  The Chinatown precinct duty sarge answered, “He said the Chinese cop. The one who worked the gang shooting. That would be you.”

  “That’s me,” Jack agreed. “I’m on my way.”

  Alex saw Jack’s jaw clenching and said, “Well, I’ve got an early morning anyway. So … rain check, okay?”

  “Sure, rain check,” Jack answered, his thoughts already pointing his gut downtown.

  They caught a cab to Alex’s Chinatown high-rise, Confucius Towers. From there it was a two-block walk to the 0-Five, the Fifth Precinct.

  The evening was dark, but not as black as Jack’s mood.

  Traffic Stop

  The white, crewcut, uniformed cop met Jack in the detective’s area of the squad room, and turned over a large knife in a sheath. Jack pulled the knife out, impressed by its heft. It was a Taiwanese knockoff, a cross between a Crocodile Dundee and a Bowie blade, several inches short of a machete. A deadly piece of tempered steel.