In some cases, Thai’s benevolence may well have been genuine. David had been around Chinatown long enough to know that the Vietnamese were not always welcomed with open arms. These sentiments were based, in part, on deep-rooted animosities between the Chinese and Vietnamese that went back centuries. Some of it also had to do with fear: The Vietnamese were the product of a violent, war-torn country, and some Chinese believed them to be similarly violent, unstable people. Mostly, though, prejudice against the Vietnamese was class-based. They were simply the most recent Asian immigrant group to arrive in Chinatown, and were therefore on the low end of the pecking order.
Whatever the reasons for their ostracism, Thai knew that his fellow Vietnamese could not rely on Chinatown’s traditional support structure. At the time, there were no Vietnamese business associations or Vietnamese banks. Most social-service agencies catered to the Chinese, where only traditional Mandarin or Cantonese dialects were spoken. Since there were no residential areas where Vietnamese passed along apartments from one generation to the next, finding, much less being able to afford, a place to live seemed insurmountable.
David Thai was hardly a blithe village benefactor, however, doling out favors solely to promote the edification and advancement of his people. First and foremost, he was a gangster on the rise. As such, his compassion carried a price tag. To most young men who received an indulgence from Thai, it was simply understood that they owed him one. If David needed someone to frighten a merchant on Canal Street into purchasing only his product, his brothers were there. If Vietnamese gangsters beholden to Thai ventured out on their own, robbing a restaurant, massage parlor, or jewelry store, they kicked a percentage of their take up the chain of command, either to their local dai low or directly to David.
Thai’s reputation was so great that even youngsters who were not criminally inclined were intrigued by the prestige and power the gang offered. David’s expanding fraternity promised something no young Vietnamese male was going to find anywhere else in American society—a feeling of belonging. For those like Tinh Ngo who had suffered through the worst of the refugee experience, this was no small matter.
Sometime in late 1988, Thai called his first sit-down, a gathering of people considered to be high-ranking members of a gang then known mostly as the Canal Boys. At a modest dim sum restaurant on Broadway just off Canal Street, approximately twenty young Vietnamese feasted on soy-stewed pork buns, moo-shu pancakes, lotus pastries, and other delicacies. Blackeyes was there, as was Eddie Tran, the young gang member who’d thrown a bomb into the police van on Elizabeth Street. Also in attendance was twenty-year-old Vinh Vu, known to all as Amigo, the gang’s popular Canal Street underboss.
“Think of what we have here as a business, not a gang,” Thai urged, standing before his ragged, upstart crew.
Little of importance was discussed at this small gathering, but for those in attendance it was a point of considerable pride. Relationships were solidified and egos stroked.
Within months, however, whatever prestige gang members acquired from that meeting was quickly surpassed by word of an upcoming one that promised to be even more important. This gathering would involve not only high-ranking gang members in and around Chinatown, but virtually every aspiring Vietnamese gangster throughout New York City and the entire surrounding region.
It would be the first official gathering of the gang known as Born to Kill.
Young Tinh Ngo arrived at the plush, upscale Japanese restaurant in midtown Manhattan feeling as if a butterfly were loose in his stomach. It was a balmy evening late in June 1989, just three weeks after Tinh met David Thai for the first time, and he was nervous. With Tinh were members of his Brooklyn crew—Tommy Vu, Kenny Vu, and Vinnie, a gang member who had just recently moved into their Coney Island apartment.
For such a momentous occasion, the boys had donned their most fashionable clothing. They wore loose-fitting linen sports coats with matching black pants, fashionable collarless shirts buttoned to the neck, black leather loafers without socks, and of course, black sunglasses that usually remained on even indoors.
Located on West Thirty-sixth Street, far from Chinatown, the restaurant had been chosen for its anonymity. Since it wasn’t Vietnamese or Chinese, presumably the meeting could be held in secret. Still, it had to be Oriental, a place that served food familiar and agreeable to the gang members’ palates.
When Tinh entered the restaurant, he was amazed by what he saw. Inside a spacious front room, a dozen tables were filled with gang members seated five or six to a table. Apparently, the entire place had been reserved for tonight’s event. The food was spread out smorgasbord style, with gang members helping themselves to sushi, tempura, and heaps of Japanese noodles—all at David Thai’s expense.
Nearly every Vietnamese person Tinh had ever met on Canal Street was in attendance. Along with rank-and-file gang members, there were dai lows from all over the area. Dung Steven, the dai low from across the river in Jersey City, was there, as was Jimmy Wong, the new dai low in Brooklyn. Michael Lam, the dai low in Queens, was there with a person Tinh knew only as Sonny, a dai low from the Bronx. The dai low in Connecticut, Phat Lam, was also in attendance. The various underbosses were accompanied by members of their crews, some of whom Tinh knew, some of whom he’d never even seen before.
In the back of the restaurant, near the head table, a large banner had been tacked high on the wall. On the banner was stenciled a coffin with three candles on top and the letters BTK engraved on the side. The purpose of the banner was clear. From here on out, the name Born to Kill, or BTK, would override Canal Boys or any other designation different gang units might have chosen for themselves. The coffin with three candles, which signified no fear of death, would be the gang’s logo.
Many gang members would later claim credit for having come up with the gang’s name. Everyone knew it originated from a slogan American GIs used to write on their helmets and helicopters during the Vietnam War. Even to a group of youths with little education or appreciation of irony, the name seemed deliciously appropriate. The phrase Born to Kill evoked the appropriate measures of fear and nihilism these young gangsters were trying to project.
Tinh and his crew grabbed one of the last remaining tables, located not far from the entrance. As they served themselves food and ate their meal along with everyone else, an air of excitement filled the room. Just months earlier, many of these same people had been scrounging along Canal Street asking for handouts. For some, the ink on their tattoos had barely dried. Now, here they were, feasting like Mafia chieftains, like important criminals who had arrived at a position of significance and respect.
“I must thank you all for coming,” David Thai noted humbly, standing to speak midway through the meal. For the next ten minutes or so, Thai sounded his usual themes. As Vietnamese, they were embarking on what David liked to call a “journey,” one that would hopefully bring them respect and make them rich. As relative newcomers to the New York area, they would need to band together if they hoped to overcome the powerful forces aligned against them.
With his gang brothers listening in rapt attention, David advised, “Con kien cong con vua”—a Vietnamese saying that meant, “By sticking together, the tiny ants can carry the elephant.”
After the meal, David circulated among the gang members, who sipped cognac and smoked expensive French cigarettes. Although few were older than their late teens or early twenties, they behaved as they thought seasoned ganglords should. To those with a sense of history, the evening’s gathering may have even had a noble purpose. After all, centuries ago similar assemblies had been held by Vietnamese mandarins, the natural leaders of a people whom foreigners had repeatedly sought and failed to pacify. David Thai, so poised and seemingly generous, was their new mandarin leader, a man of “higher destiny,” chosen to lead his minions through the travails of life.
Of course, the image of David Thai as a prince presiding over his chosen people had been carefully crafted by Thai himself. It wa
s he who had arranged the meeting and commissioned the banner that hung from the wall. As Thai moved from table to table, working the room like an old-time Chicago ward heeler, he was not only affirming his position as Anh hai, the oldest and wisest brother, but as the most powerful business, community, and spiritual leader these young men would ever know.
With Amigo by his side, David chatted amiably with the gang members at Tinh Ngo’s table. There were no conditions for joining the gang, said Thai, except for one. “You must sign this agreement,” he explained, pointing to a piece of paper Amigo held in his hand.
The paper outlined the rules of the Born to Kill gang. First and foremost, it stated, gang members would not betray their gang brothers in any way. Second, they would not cooperate with the police. Third, if a member left the gang, he was required to have his tattoo scraped from his skin. New York members who deserted the gang would also have to leave the New York City area. The fourth and final condition, emphasized David, was especially important. Before any criminal act was undertaken by a BTK gang member, it had to be cleared with the local dai low.
The paper had already been signed by most of the people in the room. It went around Tinh’s table with almost everyone, including Tinh, signing his name after giving the rules a cursory glance. Andy, one of the gang members who had accompanied Tinh on his first armed robbery of the massage parlor on Chrystie Street, demurred. “I just don’t see why we have to sign this paper,” said Andy.
There was a hushed silence at the table. Andy’s response could have been taken as a test of David Thai’s authority, if David wanted to take it that way. Instead, with his usual smooth persuasiveness, Thai seized on the occasion to present a favored image of himself, that of the velvet glove pulled smooth and tight over an iron fist.
“Little brother,” he responded calmly, “go home and think about it. No one should have to make such an important decision right away. The door is always open. But remember: You must sign this paper if you call yourself a member of our organization.”
Tinh and the others at the table were impressed. Thai handled Andy’s challenge with such a cool head, standing up for his own position without needlessly embarrassing his challenger. In fact, as Tinh watched David move so confidently from table to table, dazzling his guests with charming small talk and easy laughter, he wondered how Thai had developed such a fearsome reputation.
Tinh may have been young, but he had experienced enough in life to know that leadership was based on power, and power, especially in the underworld, was based largely on fear. How could anyone be afraid of David Thai, thought Tinh, when he appeared to be so benevolent, so understanding?
Three weeks later, after the cognac had been downed and the words of solidarity had receded into the atmosphere like so much cigarette smoke, Tinh would have his answer.
Stretched out on a bed in a small hotel room, Tinh was awakened from his nap by a knock at the door. Clad only in his underwear, he got up, went to the door, and inched it open. Through the crack, he could see Phu, a short Viet-Ching.
“Anh hai want to see you,” Phu told Tinh.
“Anh hai? He here? At this hotel?”
“Yes,” nodded Phu. “He want to talk to you. Room 308.”
“Okay. Give me one minute, I get my clothes on.” Tinh closed the door and pulled on his pants, wondering what on earth David Thai was doing at the Carter Hotel.
Located directly across from the offices of The New York Times on West Forty-third Street in midtown Manhattan, the Carter was a cheap hotel trying to look expensive. The lobby was spacious, with lots of mirrors and gold lamé, but the rooms were small and spare.
Lately, the hotel had become a favored hideout for BTK gang members who needed to lie low after assorted criminal activities. Surrounded by the continuous tumult of Times Square, the gangsters figured a few tough-looking Asian kids would hardly be noticed at the Carter. It was not the kind of place a smooth operator like David Thai would usually be found, unless he had a reason. Tinh knew of one possibility, and it made his stomach muscles tighten with fear.
Just two days earlier, Tinh, the Vu brothers, and Phu had raided another Chinatown massage parlor, this one at 54 Sixth Avenue. It had been a daring 4:00 A.M. heist in the middle of Ghost Shadows territory, and the net had been an impressive $15,000.
After the robbery, as they hightailed it to the Carter Hotel, Tinh had secretly taken $1,000 from the bag of stolen money and stuffed it in his underwear.
Tinh knew it was a dangerous thing to do, but he didn’t care. Months earlier, after his first massage-parlor robbery, the Brooklyn dai low, Jimmy Wong, had taken nearly all of Tinh’s cut, claiming he needed it to buy food and pay rent.
Tinh knew gang protocol specified that the dai low was authorized to control the distribution of proceeds from all robberies. And he knew that a percentage of the proceeds from all robberies was used to cover living expenses in the various “safe houses,” or apartments, that the gang members used. But Tinh had come away from the Chrystie Street robbery with a measly $100, and he was determined to make sure that this time he received his fair share.
Tinh took the elevator down to the third floor and knocked on the door of room 308. Phu opened the door and motioned Tinh inside.
“Hello, Anh hai,” Tinh said, as he entered. Looking around the room, Tinh saw worried looks on the faces of Tommy Vu, Jimmy Wong, Sonny, and others who were there.
David Thai stood up, walked over to Tinh, and brusquely slapped him across the face. Then he kneed him in the groin. When Tinh fell to the ground in pain, David began kicking him.
“Motherfucker!” screamed Thai, kicking and kicking. “You motherfucking motherfucker! How dare you steal from me! How dare you steal from BTK!”
“Sorry, Anh hai,” cried Tinh, between blows. “I know I make mistake. Please. Sorry.”
When Thai finally stopped kicking, Tinh pulled a wad of cash from his pocket and thrust it toward David. “Here, Anh hai, this all the money I have. I know the mistake, Anh hai, so I won’t make mistake again.”
David was breathing heavily from the exertion. He took the money from Tinh and turned to the others. “Who take care a this guy?” he asked. “Who does he follow?”
“Uh, I take care a him,” answered Jimmy Wong, Tinh’s official dai low.
“Jimmy, take this guy home. Take this motherfucker outta my sight.”
Jimmy Wong walked over and helped Tinh to his feet.
Wincing in pain, Tinh glanced around the room at the others, who looked chastened. For good reason. Whether David Thai knew it or not, it was a common practice for gang members to skim money from robbery proceeds if they thought they could get away with it. Tinh had seen others do it, including many of those standing by as he took his beating.
“Sorry, Anh hai,” mumbled Tinh one last time as he was led to the door.
In the days that followed, Tinh nursed his cuts and bruises. He figured it was Phu who had squealed on him. He knew he should be mad about it, but he wasn’t going to worry for now. After all, the incident had taught him an important lesson. He had seen the iron fist in the velvet glove. To Tinh, the moral was as plain as the hair on Ho Chi Minh’s chin.
Unless you had a taste for punishment, you didn’t fuck around with David Thai.
Chapter 3
It was just after five o’clock on the afternoon of August 5, 1989, and traffic on Canal Street was backed up as far as the eye could see. Huge trucks and commuter vehicles idled their engines, some waiting to head west toward the Holland Tunnel, others due east toward the Manhattan Bridge. Many motorists, their vehicles belching noxious fumes, angrily honked their horns and screamed obscenities. Others sat comatose, resigned to their fate as victims of a predictable New York City horror: rush hour congestion in Chinatown.
At 271 Canal Street, in front of the Asian Shopping Mall, two teenage males approached David Thai, who was chatting idly with a few associates. The two boys were both members of the Flying Dragons. It had fi
nally become clear to the larger, more established gang that the BTK was a force to be reckoned with, especially here on Canal Street. Accordingly, the Dragons had been harassing Born to Kill gang members throughout the city.
“You think you big man,” said one of the boys, fifteen-year-old Duc Ly. “You think you important guy. But nobody respect you, David Thai. Nobody respect BTK.” With Duc Ly was an equally young companion named Thanh Lai. Together, they stood on the sidewalk taunting David in broken English, as throngs of rush-hour shoppers obliviously passed by.
The BTK leader was clearly annoyed. “Hey, little boys,” he replied, “go home. Your mothers call for you.”
Then Duc Ly did something everyone knew spelled trouble. He spit on the sidewalk, a gesture of disregard for BTK territory, the BTK, and David Thai himself.
For a moment, Thai froze, so startled he was unable to think of an appropriate response. Then he turned and abruptly stormed toward the rear of the shopping mall. Duc Ly and Thanh Lai continued laughing and making comments about Thai and the BTK. Although the passersby may have been oblivious, the Chinese and Vietnamese merchants and street peddlers were not. They looked down and avoided eye contact with the young troublemakers, hoping the tenseness of the moment would pass.
In the rear of the mall, Thai brushed past a handful of BTK gang members and disappeared through a door that led to a small cellar below the Pho Hanoi luncheonette. When he reappeared seconds later, he was holding two handguns. “Here,” he said, handing one gun to gang member Eddie Tran and the other to nineteen-year-old Lam Trang, another BTK sai low. “Go shoot those motherfuckers.”
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