Year of the Dog

by Henry Chang

  Jack saw a chain of actions and reactions pulling the gangboys along helplessly, like puppets. Who was the first shooter? They hadn’t found any eyewitnesses. Wait for Tat to talk? If ever?

  The Jung brothers had both been seriously wounded by the heavy scattershot from Kong’s shotgun, but it was Jimmy who’d borne the brunt of the blasts. A dozen pellets had ripped open his chest and pierced his heart.

  Joey Jung had three gaping wounds from the shotgun, but the two nine-millimeter headshots from Lefty Cham were what killed him. Except in right profile, he no longer bore a resemblance to his brother.

  Koo Kit had taken two nine-millimeter blasts to his left shoulder and leg, sureshot Lefty drilling him, probably, as he was angling toward the alley. He’d made it partway to Doyers when four .22 hi-vels ripped through his back and riddled his heart from behind.

  Twenty-twos. They’d recovered two slugs intact, in perfect shape.

  Jack remembered the body sprawled near the bend in the alley.

  The ME had noted that all the .22-caliber bullets had penetrated at an upward angle, as if the shooter was on one knee, or shooting from the hip. Since they hadn’t recovered any .22-caliber shell casings, Jack figured the gun had to be a revolver.

  Somewhere in the puzzle was a missing .22- caliber piece, and a shooter in the wind who was responsible for two kill shot homicides and a coma victim.

  The old man, Fong, didn’t appear to be a homicide. If he was, they’d never be able to prove it. The ME had ruled COD as cardiac arrest. Instant death due to a massive heart attack. He never knew what hit him. A quick death, better than a slow one. Who was the perp? God?

  Closing the envelope, Jack called One Police Plaza, and then Manhattan South.

  Most Precious

  Bo was disappointed that Sai Go hadn’t shown up that week. She’d brought in a box of don tot, egg custard tarts, and planned to take him to Golden Unicorn for yum cha, tea. She’d guessed that he’d gone on another gambling junket with his friends.

  When the two men in suits came through the door, she thought they were walk-ins, even though she’d hardly ever seen suits walking into the New Canton. A Chinese man and a white man, quietly glancing around the shop. Abruptly, the Chinese man asked for the owner, and KeeKee beckoned him over, a curious look on her face.

  They spoke in low voices, and after a few moments, all looked at Bo.

  Bo’s first fear was that the men were immigration agents.

  Someone had betrayed her and they were here to send her back to China, or to extort money.

  She was puzzled when the Chinese man explained that he was a lawyer, and that he was a friend of Sai Go. The Caucasian man, according to the lawyer, was an agent for an insurance company. They had some papers for her to sign, and items to turn over.

  The Chinese lawyer, named Lo Fay, explained that Sai Go had suffered a sudden heart attack, and passed away.

  Bo trembled as sadness came over her. The jade gourd and the Kwan Kung talisman had failed.

  “You are the beneficiary of his life insurance policy, and according to his will . . .”

  She started to weep, and KeeKee put an arm around her, comforting her.

  “Fifty thousand dollars . . .”

  She heard his words as if from a distance, in fragments, unable to comprehend the numbers. She remembered Sai Go’s last visit, when he had gifted her with the betting ticket from OTB. He’d had a smile on his face.

  She trembled uncontrollably through her tears, and could not help thinking of her family in China.

  “He’d had no relatives to consider.”

  She felt ashamed that she was already thinking about paying off the snakeheads, but she found new hope in Sai Go’s generosity. She might finally bring her daughter and mother to America.

  “Evergreen Hills cemetery,” Lo Fay was saying, “by the new Fong Association section.”

  KeeKee told Bo to go home and rest and grieve privately but she insisted on finishing out the day.

  She vowed to herself to pay respects in the morning, at Sai Go’s grave. She promised to sweep around his tombstone every spring’s ching ming, memorial period, at every anniversary of his passing, for the rest of her life.

  At the end of the day, an old Chinese man came to the salon and presented Bo with a package, saying it was from his friend Fong Sai Go. She thanked him and he left. Removing the brown mahjong-paper wrapping, usually used by old-timers to cover the playing surface, she saw a polished mahogany box with a mother-of-pearl Double-Happiness symbol inlaid across the top. Inside the box was the gold-plated talisman card she’d given to Sai Go long ago. Beneath the talisman was a large red lai see, lucky-money envelope.

  The lai see was thick. She opened it and saw neatly banded stacks of hundred-dollar bills. Lucky money from an honorable caring man who’d run out of time. She quickly put everything back into the Chinese box and left the salon.

  Outside, the evening was black, and frozen. She cried all the way home, her hot tears mercifully wiping away the hopelessness that had shrouded her heart.

  Intelligence

  Reaching out to the Gang Intelligence squad, Jack was able to access the computer records specific to Chinatown gangs.

  The Ghost crew run by Lucky had had serious charges filed against them that were mostly dropped, dismissed, or pleaded-out. Assault, robbery, promoting an illegal gambling enterprise, possession of controlled substances, and weapons violations. Suspected in numerous assaults and homicides. The On Yee was rumored to have good white lawyers on their payroll. Knowing this, Jack scrolled on and clicked deeper. Under IDENTIFYING TATTOOS AND MARKS, he entered “red star.”

  The Stars popped up, a dozen thumbnail pictures of adolescent Chinese faces. The Stars were thought to be one of many small gangs, the off-shoot younger brothers of outcast Chinatown gangs that had vied for leftovers along the stretch of East Broadway before the Ghosts and the Fukienese came along.

  The Stars, with less than twenty members, had mostly petty criminal records: disorderly conduct, petty larceny, attempted assault, criminal mischief, nothing as hard-core as Lucky’s Ghosts.

  Maybe they just hadn’t gotten caught with the serious stuff?

  Sometime after 1989, their activities ceased. Long-standing warrants for their top leaders went for naught. As if they’d disappeared.

  The Jung brothers, appearing younger, came up quickly as he scrolled. They were six years younger, according to the dates on the pictures. They had been charged with criminal mischief and menacing. The circumstances were not identified, and the accusations were later dropped when the complainants declined to press charges.

  Other Star members had also been arrested for criminal mischief, and those charges had also been dropped.

  Jack noticed that one member of the gang, Keung “Eddie” Ng, was listed at four-foot seven inches tall. A shorty. He’d had a juvie file as a teenager that revealed he had been arrested for criminal mischief, for spray-painting red graffiti stars all over the interior of a Chinatown warehouse. He’d tripped a silent alarm. They’d also charged him with a B&E, breaking and entering, even though they couldn’t figure out how he’d gotten inside.

  All the doors and windows were still locked when the cops arrived.

  Under IDENTIFYING MARKS, the record also indicated he had a small tattoo of a monkey, like Curious George, on his left wrist.

  Finally, the address given by little Keung—“Eddie”—was 98 East Broadway, the same as the current address for Koo Kit, the victim who’d been shot in the back. Jack deduced that Little Eddie was good for whatever had happened in the alley. The vicious little twenty-twos, shot upward by a shorty.

  Ngai jai dor gai, mused Jack, short people are cunning. The Chinese say that short people are more clever because their brains are closer to the ground, and they see reality more clearly.

  Jack printed out the mug shots from Keung “Eddie” Ng’s file.

  Loot - See Lawyer

  Lo Fay, the lawyer, sa
t behind an old metal desk in his small windowless office. He wore his hair in a comb-over and spoke through a crooked smile.

  Listening to the man, Jack saw him for the shyster lawyer that he was.

  “He was dying,” Lo Fay said of Fong Sai Go, his client and friend. “He had no one else to leave it to, and he thought giving it to her was the right thing.”

  “He was an honorable man?” Jack suggested. “He wanted to do something good in his life?”

  “Right.” Lo Fay kept the squinty-eyed smile on his face. “She was kind to him.”

  Jack gave him a knowing look. “What did Mr. Fong do for a living?

  “He used to be a waiter.”

  “Used to be?”

  “He retired years ago.”

  “So, what?” Jack asked. “He was collecting social security, or something?”

  “I’m not sure about that.”

  Jack leaned in, saying quietly, “What about the gun he had?”

  “I don’t know about any gun,” said Lo Fay, losing the smile.

  “Why do you think an old man like him would carry a gun?”

  “No idea,” smirked Lo Fay. “Maybe he had no faith in the police.”

  Jack grinned quietly, made a fist, and rubbed his knuckles. “What exactly did he retain you for?”

  Lo Fay took a breath, saying matter-of-factly, “To do the will, and to handle the life insurance.”

  Jack waited for him to go on.

  “He wanted me to arrange immigration matters for her. Applications, like that.”

  Jack said, “And you have a check to show that he compensated you for these services?”

  “I’m not looking for trouble, officer,” said the lawyer looking away. “He paid me in cash.”

  “How very Chinese.”

  “Everyone prefers cash,” Lo Fay said. “It’s the American way.”

  “And you work for the Association?”

  “Don’t misunderstand. I only handle the Association’s accounts with the funeral parlors.”

  “Right, the death business,” Jack said knowingly. “It’s a complicated affair.”

  “Lots of legalities when you die,” he answered.

  “Like who gets what?” Jack added.

  “Like who follows up, who takes care of the spirit,” said Lo Fay.

  The spirit? thought Jack.

  “You have to consider Chinese tradition,” the lawyer said. “The afterlife is just as important.”

  Jack thought of Pa’s death, and the cemetery at Evergreen Hills. He leaned away from the charlatan lawyer, saying directly, “You know what it’s like in the afterlife?”

  “Well, no. But people should be optimistic at death.”

  Optimistic?

  Both men were quiet a long moment, the interview at an awkward end.

  Jack shook his head contemptuously as he left Lo Fay’s office. He remembered the Kung family’s murder-suicides, the brutal killing of the delivery boy, Hong, the bodies around OTB, and couldn’t find any optimism about death.

  Touch on Evil

  The two watches taken from the Jung brothers ran like they were synchronized, accurate to ten seconds of each other. Jack figured that one of the brothers had set both watches.

  The Rado found on Lucky had stopped at 4:44 that afternoon. The worst numbers a Chinese can get, Jack thought. Lucky’s time really had run out.

  Jack decided to bring the watches along, just to see what the old wise woman would get from them.

  The little copper-colored slug was a .22-caliber long rifle round, a high velocity bullet generally used in target-shooting competition. Jack closed his hand around it, shaking it in his fist. The small piece of metal bounced around. It weighed next to nothing, he thought. It was barely bigger than a grain of nor may, sticky rice, yet the minute projectile figured prominently in the deaths of two people, and had reduced Lucky to a comatose state.

  Wise Woman

  He found Ah Por at the Senior Citizens Center, on a bench near the kitchen volunteers who were still ladling out the last of the free congee.

  He showed her the watches first. She held them up to the light, frowning at the rectangular black watch faces. Black. Bad luck times three, he imagined her thinking. She said, “Gee sin” quickly, and made a flapping motion with her free hand, fanning herself. Gee sin, a paper fan. Another arcane clue, mused Jack. Paper fan? He knew better than to question further, and took back the watches.

  He removed the twenty-two bullet from the plastic ziplock bag and handed it to her.

  Ah Por cradled the little slug in her palm, bouncing it gently like she was checking its weight. She closed her gnarled fingers around it, and squeezed. Closing her eyes, she jerked her head slightly, as if surprised.

  “Ma lo,” she said distinctly, and this time it was clear to Jack she meant monkey. Bad monkey, just as he’d suspected, and was now certain. Keung “Eddie” Ng was the missing shooter.

  Jack thanked Ah Por, folded a five-dollar bill into her bony hand, and exited the center through the crowd of old gray heads.

  Wanted Person of Interest

  Back at the 0-Five, Jack reviewed the Gang Intel files, and put Eddie’s photo, tattoos, and name on a wanted bulletin that would reach out electronically to a million eyes, searching into the wind after a clever monkey.

  Mercy and Love

  Bo waited on Mott Street until the Temple of Buddha opened its doors. Inside, a recorded chant came from behind the large wooden carving of the Goddess of Mercy. Bo burned some incense, kneeled before the goddess, and recited the prayers for Sai Go that she’d offered during the night.

  On the way out she bowed to the statue of Kwan Kung, God of War, and went down Mott Street holding back her tears.

  White Face

  Jack watched as the men in blue windbreakers shuttered every known gambling establishment on Mott, Bayard, and Pell Streets, including the mahjong rooms, massage parlors, and karaoke clubs.

  The OCCB, Organized Crime Control Bureau, supported by state troopers, ATF agents, and U.S. Customs and Immigration officers, raided the Association headquarters of the On Yee, the Hip Ching, and the Fuk Chow.

  While prominent white lawyers protested on the Associations’ behalf, the cops arrested every known Ghost on sight, and also hauled in the Dragons and Fuk Chings for good measure. The brazen gangboys were made to take the perp walk for the news reporters, ducking their heads to hide from the cameras, trying to avoid the humiliation of extreme loss of face.

  The blue task force raided Chinatown apartments, basements, and warehouses for contraband goods: counterfeit designer handbags and computer software, watches, cassettes, and bootleg cigarettes. Department of Transportation marshals followed them and towed away all the gangsters’ muscle cars.

  The 0-Five, backed by the outside layers of law enforcement, was sending a signal to all the tongs and gangbangers on Fifth Precinct turf, a hard-fisted notice that the NYPD blue gang was not going to tolerate the wanton violence that had brought embarrassment and critical scrutiny to their stationhouse.

  The cops didn’t really give a shit if the gangsters killed each other, Jack knew, it was only politics. When the wind died down, the stench would return.

  The pictures of seized contraband and the perp walks were published in the daily papers to show that the police had flexed their muscles, and were firmly in control of Chinatown.

  One Police Plaza measured its comments, still wary of the fickle media.

  Captain Marino called Jack and thanked him personally for his assistance, wishing him well on his return to the 0-Nine.

  * * *

  The United National, Chinatown’s oldest newspaper, ap-plauded the many Associations for their cooperation with law enforcement, for contributing to a safer neighborhood. Vincent Chin’s editorial pointed out the need for Chinese community-liaison officers, and more bilingual civilian employees in the local precincts.

  The headlines in the New York Post announced NYPD MOVES TO END GANG VI
OLENCE, CRACKS DOWN ON CHINATOWN TONGS.

  The Daily News printed photos of the dead gangsters, labeling them “modern-day hatchetmen of the new tong wars.”

  The Metro section of The Times printed a picture of Keung “Eddie” Ng, wanted as a person of interest by detectives of the Fifth Precinct.

  Jack knew they meant Detectives Hernandez and Donelly.

  BAI SAN, Paying Respect

  January eighteenth was Pa’s birthday. Jack went to the cemetery alone, bringing the pair of potted hothouse Dusty Millers he’d bought at Fa Fa Florist. The cemetery grounds lay beneath a blanket of white, hard drifts that had piled up against the sides of the old mausoleums. The headstones were covered by white caps already melting in the morning sun, trickles of water running down toward the frozen earth.

  From Pa’s gray headstone, Jack scanned the hushed ghostly scene. At the other side of the cemetery, on a hilly knoll that was part of the new Chinese section, he noticed a woman pulling items out of large shopping bags. She was a solitary figure in front of a new brown-colored headstone, setting down bright red pots of poinsettias, the only movement in the silent rolling expanse of white snow and evergreens.

  Flames danced out of a big tin bucket as she fed the fire handfuls of gold- and silver-colored-paper taels, fake ancient Chinese money. A red cardboard car disappeared into the smoke, following the million-dollar packets of death money. Paper talismans of numerous Chinese gods were sacrificed, bot gwas in different colors and shapes.

  Even in the distance, under the slanting sunlight, Jack could see she was crying as she spoke her prayers.

  The sight made him feel even sadder.