by Cleo Coyle
Dante snorted. “Busted or busty?”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Esther snapped.
“It means the shock and awe that you inflict doesn’t come from your fists.”
“Stop bickering, you two, or I’ll cancel your wedding.”
“No problem, Mother,” Esther shot back with a sigh. “Alas, what kind of a ceremony could we have had anyway? No cupcakes, no egg tarts—and a bad-luck number of dowry trays.”
That’s when I noticed the activity across the street. I nudged my team. That mysterious black door next to the green archway had slid open to reveal an elevator shaft. Inside was a primitive freight car, little more than a metal cage.
Dragon Boy emerged with another youth. Each pushed a wheeled cupcake rack. A moment later, a third man stepped into the light.
“What is that third guy carrying?” I whispered.
The man was older than the others and much bigger. Good thing, too, because he was carrying bulging black bags, one over each shoulder. Each sack looked as large as a sailor’s kit.
“You’re right, Boss, that’s weird. What could be in those black bags?”
“Well, they’re not restaurant supplies. Those come in neat boxes, and you certainly wouldn’t carry fruits or vegetables in polyester bags.”
“They’re big enough to be body bags,” Esther noted uneasily.
Dante frowned. “Let’s follow.”
“From a distance,” I insisted. “We don’t need any more violence.”
“But what if—”
“No buts, Dante. I may not be your yeh-yeh, but I’m still your boss.”
“Come on, before they get away!” Esther cried. Pushing through the hanging weather strips, she raced off, heels clicking on the pavement as she ran down Mosco.
Dante glanced at me. “Women who wear bustiers should never, ever run.”
We caught up with our bouncing barista at the end of the block. Cautiously, all three of us peered around the corner. There was no sign of Kaylie’s van—but I finally got a look at the Dragon Fire food truck.
Bright red with gold trim, the vehicle’s elaborate artwork depicted a coiled dragon, its fiery breath providing the heat beneath a giant wok.
“Cool design,” Esther whispered as we watched the big black bags being loaded into the truck. Next, Billy and his helper rolled Kaylie’s cupcake racks up a steel ramp and into the belly of the beast.
“Wonder what’s on today’s menu?” As Esther craned her neck, I heard a man loudly curse.
“Son of a bitch!”
For a split-second I thought we’d been spotted. But the shout came from the other side of Mulberry, near Columbus Park.
“Who the hell did this?!” The raging man circled his sleek BMW. Every window had been slapped with dozens of neon orange stickers bearing the Two Wheels Good bicycle logo.
The man clawed at the stickers, trying to pull them free, but the glue wouldn’t budge. The most he could manage was to shred some of the orange paper with the edge of his key.
“What’s going on?” I wondered aloud.
“Dude’s Beemer is parked illegally, in the middle of a designated bicycle lane,” Dante explained. “Guess he just expected a ticket. Looks like Fairway’s people thought he deserved more than that.”
“Yeah, and Big Brother is still watching,” Esther said, pointing. “Or should I say Big Sister? Check her out.”
Frizzy blonde hair in a ponytail, athletic body clad in silver sports bra and bicycle shorts, a pink sweatband around her forehead, Warrior Barbie sat astride a sleek chrome racing bike in the middle of a narrow stretch of Columbus Park. The girl was tittering with undisguised glee as she used her smart phone camera to capture the reaction of BMW guy.
“Whatever means necessary,” Dante said, echoing Fairway’s refrain.
I could tell he was impressed. Esther was, too. And I understood their frustration with scofflaws. There were enough of them in this town—men and women who thought they could get around the rules and regulations that the rest of us lived by because they could afford to pay the traffic tickets or their lawyers or do whatever it took to game the system.
It angered me, too. But it wasn’t an excuse for committing crime—because that’s what this was: vandalism. And as I considered Warrior Barbie’s gratification from this guy’s grief, I couldn’t help wondering how she’d feel if she learned he’d parked there because his little girl went missing, or his elderly mother had suffered a heart attack.
And how far would Fairway’s people go? If someone did something more serious than this (at least in their eyes), would they consider more extreme illegal acts justified? A necessary means to accomplish their “better ends”?
Just then, a diesel engine rumbled. The Dragon Fire truck was pulling away from the curb. We watched it lumber down Mulberry.
I checked my watch. “We have time.”
“Time for what, Boss?” Esther asked.
“I’ll tell you on the way. Taxi!”
NINETEEN
“FOLLOW that food truck!”
“Huh?” Our newly minted citizen cabbie (Mr. Jun Hon, according to his hack license) turned in his seat for clarification, his lined brow wrinkling even more. “Where you going, lady?”
“You see that truck ahead of us? The one with the dragon breathing fire under a giant wok? Well, wherever it goes, I want you to follow.”
Sitting at my left in the cab’s backseat, Esther pushed up her glasses. “Geez, Boss, if you needed a nosh, we could have gone back for pork buns.”
“We’re not following the wok,” I said. “We’re following what’s on it.”
“The cupcakes?” said Dante, at my right.
Sitting in the middle, I shook my head. “The black bags.”
OUR odyssey began as we rolled down Mulberry—the section that paralleled Columbus Park.
Esther was right about the area’s history. Over a century ago, this placid green space was the historical site of Five Points, one of the most dangerous slums in the country, until New York’s leaders became fed up with their violent turf wars and swept it away, replacing it with this park.
The “Columbus” name was meant as a tribute to the community’s Italian population back when it had been Italian. The influx of Asian immigrants (up to and including our cabbie, Mr. Hon) eventually reduced little Italy to its current few blocks of restaurants, cafés, and souvenir shops. The only thing named Five Points these days was a restaurant in Noho and Dante’s favorite arts collective, housed in a converted firehouse nearby.
At the intersection with Bayard, our taxi hung a right and practically came to a standstill. It took us nearly fifteen minutes to negotiate the relatively short distance from here to Mott to Canal.
“Alas,” Esther sighed, “the drawback of ‘four wheels’ in Chinatown.”
The roadway was so narrow that the five- and six-story brick structures—most of them cramped tenements dating back to the nineteenth century—felt like towering hulks. Delivery trucks and cargo vans were the biggest issue. Drivers pulled over and bailed out, sometimes with their motors running, to unload boxes, barrels, and bins.
We rolled by more Chinese take-out joints, hair salons, dry cleaners, green-grocers, two aromatic herb stores, and a very popular acupuncture clinic.
“Pin It!” Esther cried.
Dante rolled his eyes, and I pointed out another site: a striking, pagoda-like building housing a jewelry store and a bakery on its ground floor. “Mike once told me this address used to be the headquarters of a notorious Chinatown gang.”
“On Leong Tong,” our driver informed us.
According to Mr. Hon, this “Chinese Merchants Association” was now simply an alliance of Chinatown businessmen, but for nearly one hundred years—and as late as the 1990s—On Leong Tong leaders were running protection rackets out of this building with a street gang known as the Ghost Shadows.
“Nice name,” Esther said.
“Maybe,” our d
river said. “But methods—not so nice.”
Dante pointed out they had nothing on the Italians. I couldn’t argue. Just a few blocks away, in what was left of Little Italy, sat a café where the Genovese family had a “social club” and bookmaking operation, until the Mafia-busting Rudy Giuliani put an end to the party.
Before he’d run for mayor (or president, for that matter). Giuliani had been a U.S. attorney, wielding the RICO law like a sledgehammer to bust up the Five Families with charges of extortion, labor racketeering, and murder for hire. His efforts resulted in four thousand convictions and only a handful of reversals.
“It must have felt good—bringing down guys that bad,” I said.
“Ha!” barked Mr. Hon.
“You don’t agree?”
“How good you feel when bad guys put a price on your head?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “It never happened to me.”
“Hold up,” Dante interrupted. “You’re telling me that Giuliani had mob contracts put out on him?”
The cabbie and I both nodded.
“How much?” Dante asked.
“First contract, eight-hundred thou,” said Mr. Hon. “Second contract, four-hundred thou.”
“That doesn’t sound like a lot,” Esther replied.
“A lot for scumbag! Rudy G one lucky lawyer.”
At last, we escaped the congestion and gloom of those former tenement streets. Turning onto Bowery, we felt the world open up again as the blocked light gave way to sun and sky. This six-lane boulevard offered vast space between buildings and boasted many newer ones—Confucius Plaza being a shining example.
The modern skyscraper was the first federally subsidized project to create affordable housing for the Chinatown population, most of whom had been jammed into those cramped tenements back on Mott, Bayard, and Mulberry.
“Confucius Plaza over there, see?” our driver proudly pointed. “We have medical office, public school, day-care center, seven hundred apartments. But you know what people visit most?”
“I’ll bite,” said Esther.
“Statue of Confucius.” He pointed again as we rolled by the fifteen foot bronze sculpture.
I smiled. “I take it you’re a fan of the philosopher, Mr. Hon?”
“Confucius rock star in Chinese culture. Master Kong’s teachings written down in Lun Yu. I read every page. Better than Harry Potter.” He laughed.
“I haven’t read the Lun Yu,” I conceded, “but I’ve heard enough to know he was a very wise man.” (During the age of Chinese feudalism, when intrigue and vice were rampant, Confucius—aka Master Kong—urged feudal leaders to live by higher ethical and moral standards.) “We could use him now, I think.”
“Lady, don’t know why you follow big, fat dragon wok. But you right about that. Yes, you right about that.”
BEFORE long, we were moving faster and turning onto a thoroughfare that ran parallel to the East River and below the FDR, an expressway that skirted the length of Manhattan’s east side. The heavy traffic moved quickly here, and I soon realized our destination: South Street Seaport.
The Seaport complex covered twelve blocks and featured some of the oldest architecture in Lower Manhattan. At the heart of this property was Pier 17, a rebuilt dock holding a modern glass shopping pavilion that offered gorgeous views of the fast-flowing East River and that beloved neo-Gothic span of suspended steel wires known as the Brooklyn Bridge. There was a maritime museum, a marine life conservation lab, and the largest privately owned fleet of historic ships in the country, including a fully-rigged cargo ship circa 1885.
On this balmy, sunny day, tourists and locals packed the area, milling between Pier 17 and the preserved cobblestones of Fulton, a street featuring more shops and restaurants.
According to Esther, the area’s history embraced the likes of white-maned poet Walt Whitman, who’d described the port as a forest of masts, and author Herman Melville, who’d taken a job as a customs inspector after penning Moby Dick, one of the greatest novels of all time, which hadn’t earned him a penny.
“Thar she blows!” Esther pointed. “Kaylie’s truck!”
The rainbow-colored Kupcake Kart was here, all right, Eiffel Tower and all. Kaylie had beached her psychedelic whale by a curb across from Pier 17, and a line of customers were eagerly scarfing down the Kween’s decadent menu.
“Good location,” Dante said.
“In more ways than one,” I noted.
Esther understood. “May the Great Buttercream Spirit in the Sky keep her far, far away from us!”
“And Brooklyn,” I added. “Today especially.”
We were all feeling pretty relieved to find her—and triumphant about our recon. In our minds, tracking the dragon truck here was absolute verification that Kaylie’s white service van was off the street, which strongly implied her van was the very one used in last night’s brutal hit-and-run.
I could almost hear Mike Quinn in my head. “Nice work, Cosi. You nailed motive, opportunity, and even the weapon.”
But my soaring spirits fell as I watched the Dragon Fire truck roll right by Kaylie’s Kart.
“Hey! Where are you going?” Esther cried.
“What you mean? I follow truck!” Mr. Hon replied.
“No, not you!”
“Keep going, sir,” I urged our driver.
Mr. Hon followed the dragon as it blew by Kaylie and most of the milling tourists. But I held out hope—Jeffrey Li’s mobile dragon didn’t leave the area completely. At nearby John Street, it hung a right, made another turn, and pulled up next to a Fast Park lot near the middle of the block.
“Stop, Mr. Hon!” I cried. “Don’t get too close!”
The cabbie double-parked, and we waited.
“Lady, you getting out?”
“Not yet. Keep the meter running, please.”
“Okay. Your dime.”
“Actually, it’s looking like quite a few dimes,” Esther said, pointing to the taxi’s mounting meter.
Luckily, we didn’t have to wait long. Out of the Dragon Fire truck came the same big guy we’d seen back in Chinatown. As he stepped onto the sidewalk, Dante wailed.
“Oh, man! If that Dragon truck drops off those cupcakes here and not with Kaylie, how can we be sure her white service van is out of commission?”
“We can’t,” I said. “We’ll just have to wait this out…”
All four of us (Mr. Hon included), blinked and stared, watching to see what would be next to come out of the metal beast.
“Look!” Esther cried.
The big man on the sidewalk was being handed something—and not cupcakes. I recognized one of those two big black bags we’d seen him lugging on Mosco. He hoisted it over his shoulder and carried it a few car lengths. Then he quickly hung a left, disappearing into an alley.
“Now where is he going?” I murmured.
“You want to go down alley?” the cabbie asked, sounding just as intrigued. He began to shift the taxi into drive, but I stopped him.
“Stay parked, Mr. Hon. We don’t want to spook the guy.”
“I’ll see what’s up.” Dante popped the door. With all my strength, I dragged him back.
“Billy Li is on that truck!” I reminded him. “If he recognizes you walking by, there’s sure to be a fight!”
“I don’t care,” Dante snapped. “I told you I can take that kid.”
“No, Dante! I mean it!”
“Then why are we here?” he demanded. “We can’t see a thing. We don’t know what’s happening.”
Come on, Clare, think of something!
“Mr. Hon, do you have a map?” I asked.
“Map! What you need map for? You have Mr. Hon.”
“I know. But for now, I need a big, paper map. Any paper map—”
“No paper. GPS.”
“I have a subway map in my bag,” Esther said. “Will that help?”
“Perfect!”
As I unfolded the thing, Dante frowned. “Boss, what are
you doing?”
“Sit tight.” I said and began to climb over him, but he grabbed my arm.
“I really think you should let me go.”
“I don’t want there to be any violence, Dante, and my number one artista should be using his hands for painting not punching.” I squeezed his shoulder. “I’ll handle it my way.”
TWENTY