by Henry Chang
Cowboy went to the counter and requested the doughnut chair instead, just so he could get an eyeball on the monitor or videotape deck.
The counter lady was watching the screen with a curious expression as the group of men approached. Something odd about them. Their faces like cartoon masks. She caught her breath as one of them suddenly reached up and sprayed a cloud that blacked out the camera view.
Cowboy stepped from the counter and toward the front as the buzzer sounded. The two seated men glanced toward the door. The old door guard kept his right hand near his hip, took a gander through the peephole. Looked like a bachelor party something. Usually, he’d get the nod of approval from the counter.
He turned just in time to see the blur of Cowboy’s fist before hearing the sound of his own nose breaking. The immediate white whipflashes and the rush of blood dropped him to the grimy floor like a sack of rice.
The other two men rose from their seats but were frozen in place as Cowboy opened the door for Loo Ga and Jojo, bursting in with guns drawn. Lucky stormed in behind them and they pushed the two men back, behind the counter.
Cowboy took a bowie knife from the old man’s waistband, still in its sheath, as the Lam brothers barreled in.
“Look under the counter!” he yelled at Loo Ga before booting the sniveling old man into a corner.
Men in Halloween masks talking it up in Cantonese.
The Lam brothers toted two semiauto pistols and a shotgun. They began herding the half-naked customers and working girls toward the back of the spa, people who didn’t want to argue with a shotgun. Short Lam took their cell phones and wallets.
Cowboy covered the scene with his deadly little Colt.
Jojo took a switchblade off the younger of the two men, the one he knew was the pimp gai wong of the rub joint. Lucky watched as Jojo bitch-slapped him, with Loo Ga slamming him from behind. The other man shuddered, fearing his.
“Lun yeung! Where’s the cash?” Loo Ga demanded. Jojo clicked open the switchblade.
“I don’t know!” the man pleaded. “I just supply the girls.” Jojo bitch-slapped him again.
“You call those hags girls? Kai daai!”
Lucky watched as Loo Ga put his Luger to the head of the older man, saying:
“Open the safe.”
“I don’t know . . .” as Loo Ga clocked him across the ear with the butt of the pistol.
“Ayeeowwww!”
The counter lady looked ready to panic but Cowboy calmed her.
“No one needs to get hurt. Just point to the safe, and pull the videotape out.”
Trembling, she did as she was told. Cowboy pocketed the videotape.
Lucky grinned behind his Popeye mask as Cowboy moved the lady to the Lam brothers.
Jojo handcuffed the pimp and kept the switchblade against his quivering face as the other man was made to kneel in front of a hotel-type safe. Loo Ga pressed the gun barrel against his temple.
“This worth dying for?” Lucky asked him. “Got a girlfriend? Wife? Kids?”
“Yes!”
“Want to see them again?”
“Yes! Please . . .”
“Then open the safe. No one gets hurt. Tomorrow, business as usual.”
“Who are you guys?” Loo Ga smacked him again.
“Ayyeooow!”
“Open the fuckin’ safe!”
Jojo dragged the point of the switchblade across the pimp’s cheek, drawing a line of blood.
“Hoyla! Hoy la!” the pimp hollered. “Open the safe!”
The man punched in a security code and opened the strongbox before they shoved him aside. Jojo scooped out wads of cash, credit cards, and assorted pharmaceuticals. Lucky signaled the others.
They’d been there almost ten minutes and needed to roll. Cowboy notified Say Low and Jadine, sending them a prearranged “0” over the phone. Fire up your engines, ready to roll.
Lucky led the way out as Loo Ga and Jojo followed with the sack of loot. Cowboy signaled the Lams, waited a few seconds before trailing the others to the van.
The Lam brothers closed it out, splashing a quart of gasoline around the doorway. They torched it. The workers and johns would have to exit through the back of the house, and there would be no pursuit.
The Lams were the last ones, piling in and sliding the van door shut as Say Low drove them calmly toward the highway lights of the LIE and the brothers’ garage.
The Lams had a big garage, a makeshift aluminum shack next to their home, large enough to park their old Suburban and a second, smaller car. Tonight the Suburban was parked on the street.
Their house was at the end of an urban cul-de-sac, the street ending on their block and then splitting two ways through neighborhoods curling back toward the highway. They’d erected the shack garage themselves, using military guidelines.
Loo Ga had parked his Mazda nearby, prepared to drive Lucky back to Flushing. Say Low left his Charger a block away from the Mazda, ready to give Cowboy a lift to Manhattan. Jadine arrived last, parked across from the house, and waited for Jojo.
Say Low rolled the van in easily, everyone breathing sighs of relief when he cut the engine. The Lams secured the garage doors and they gathered around a workbench as Lucky emptied the loot bag. He heard murmurs and grunts as they saw the pile in the cone of lamplight. Bundles of cash from the safe, from the wallets, a dozen credit cards, plastic ziplock bags of different colored pills.
The Lams never took any money from the massage ladies after they pleaded for it, cried over how they’d earned it. They also didn’t snatch the gold chains or rings off the johns but did keep their wallets and cell phones.
Lucky split the safe cash off for Loo Ga to count. He emptied the cash and credit cards from the wallets, separated them. Eight hundred cash, four credit cards. He added the wallet cards to the bogus credit cards from the safe. He put the wallets aside, empty except for family photos of wife and kids, for Loo Ga. Loo would find ways to blackmail the johns, by threatening to send pics to the wifey or to the job.
“Twenty-four thousand and eight hundred,” announced Loo Ga.
Lucky tossed the credit cards to Jojo. “Better put these to work quick,” he instructed, knowing Jojo and Jadine would rack up fake charges at the shady massage, porn, and entertainment businesses that the Taiwanese Big Circle operated in Flushing.
“We’ll square up later,” Lucky said as Jojo hustled with the credit cards to Jadine waiting in the car. The cards would buck up Jadine’s half-share for just driving around this time. Some extra cash as a bonus would keep them both happy.
The bags of pills, mostly ecstasy, with ludes and amphetamines thrown in, he valued at a couple of thousand dollars, tops. He tossed them to the Lam brothers. Who in this crew knew how to move pharmaceuticals better than them? The pills would goose their lesser shares.
“Dailo gets a quarter,” said Loo Ga, parsing six thousand aside for Lucky. “And as agreed, the shares.” He kept four thousand for himself, the same he gave to Lucky to hold for Jojo. He gave three thousand to Cowboy, two thousand each to the Lam brothers, and to Say Low.
Before Say Low left with Cowboy, Lucky gave them another thousand each from his own share. Is everybody happy? Loo Ga stood quietly impressed by how Lucky treated the crew fairly.
They were the last to leave the Lams’ garage, both men quiet on the drive to Flushing. Lucky didn’t mind paying out of his share this time. It showed solidarity with the crew, and generosity on his part. A happy crew was a productive crew. More Art of War. Besides, money wasn’t all that he was after. He wanted power. He wanted back on Mott Street and knew the money would follow.
A few thousand to bond the crew? It was a cheap price to pay.
***
Lucky told Loo Ga to drop him off on Main Street, three blocks from the Asia Manor. He didn’t want any of the crew to k
now where he was staying. Better for everyone and less chance of betrayal. Dawn still hadn’t wiped the after-hours from the sky as Loo Ga pulled the Mazda to the curb.
“That’s it, boss?”
“Yeah, for a few days,” answered Lucky. “Why, you impatient?”
“Nah.”
“So enjoy your cash a little.”
“Yeah, will do.”
“We go again next week.”
“Awwright.” Loo Ga grinned as Lucky climbed out of the Mazda. “I’ll be ready, but . . .”
“But what?”
“No jerkoffs, okay?”
Lucky laughed as Loo Ga drove away. No jerkoffs. He smirked. So far so good.
Later, he sat shirtless in the luxe armchair, in the cool quiet dark of the Asia Manor studio. He fired up some sinsemilla, looking out the picture window at the sparkling points of light in the Main Street distance. The view inspired vivid brass and neon memories from his heart of Chinatown.
Timing is everything, he knew, but wondered how much time he had left in this second life. All the Chinatown dailos knew:
Patience is a virtue.
But too much will hurt you, echoed the boyz on the street. Not so much Sun Tzu but world-wise gang-boy wisdom.
The sinsemilla burned an umami sickly sweet.
And he was lucky so far. He laughed out loud. But he’d been Lucky forever, even granted a second life!
They’d robbed Charley Joe, and the Temple Spa, without a shot being fired, just old-fashioned thuggery and terror; a couple of pistol-whippings and broken noses, and Jojo went and cut a pimp, but nothing fatal or life-threatening.
And flaming the place was Jojo’s idea, a bit of revenge that would also send a message. Payback for stealing his massage parlor. No one expected the FDNY though. What kind of fire can you start with a quart of gasoline anyway?
He figured the manager crew would put it out quickly, but those panicked idiots let it get out of hand. If the Temple Spa hadn’t been at the far end of the strip, and if there had been any structural damage, the takedown raid might have gotten more unwanted interest.
He toked down the weed, wanted to believe it wouldn’t turn out to be a problem.
In the distance, the bright lights continued to call. The new crew was happy for the time being, but he turned his attention to the next job, a shout in the face of the Ghost Legion. He’d let the crew leaders, Loo Ga and Jojo, know soon enough.
Soon enough, he’d put the On Yee on notice.
No Problem
Her words came in a message on his phone. Judge ruled out the videotape. You’re clear. Alexandra clearing one hurdle for him. He wanted to message her back but knew it’d go to some dead end somewhere.
No problem, he texted back anyway. See you soon.
He didn’t feel optimistic.
The phone jangled again, trembling in his hand. He hoped it was Alexandra.“Detective Yu?” A man’s voice, with a law enforcement edge.
“Correct.” Like answering a challenge.
“McAuliffe, from the One-Ten.”
Jack scratched his mind for a few seconds.
“You the duty sarge?”
“That’s right. You were looking for Chinese angles in CompStat, right? About a week ago?”
“That’s right. Why? What’s up?”
“Last night there was a fire. A Chi-nees massage parlor on Thirty-Seventh Avenue. Called the Temple Garden.”
Jack held his tongue, wondering if any of it led to Jojo.
“FDNY and EMS responded. As did one of the sector cars that caught the call.”
“Go on,” Jack prodded, the word Chinese sticking in his brain.
“It wasn’t much of a fire. They issued a citation. EMS handled two injuries, both male. One Chinaman with a broken nose and a hernia. Said he tripped and fell on his face.” Chinaman also stuck in his forehead.
“The other . . . guy?”
“Claimed to be a customer. Had a cut on his face. He also tripped and fell.”
“Whoa, what’re they serving there?” Jack quipped. “Anyone else trip and fall?” Either his people were exceptionally clumsy or they avoided involvement with the authorities.
“Haha. Their English was sketchy, so something might have gotten lost in translation. Know what I’m sayin’?”
“No massage girls, or other customers?”
“Negative. Must’ve run off after the fire started. Like a Chinese fire drill.” Running the gamut of Chinaman jokes.
He tried to guess where the deal was leading but was missing a few cards. He decided to take the Mustang out to Queens again.
Temple Garden.
“Anything else?” Jack asked.
“Nope, that’s it. TPO’s on file.”
“Great. Thanks a lot, McAuliffe.”
“You got it! One question, though.”
“Shoot.”
“Where’s a good place to eat in Chinatown?”
***
Before heading to the garage at Confucius, he decided to visit The United National to see if its editor, Vincent Chin, had heard anything. Vincent had unofficially assisted Jack on previous cases.
The National, Luen Hop Kwok, was Chinatown’s oldest Chinese-language daily and was Pa’s favorite hometown newspaper. The storefront office was across from the Men’s Mission on White Street.
He arrived empty-handed, neglecting to bring Vincent a customary takeout cup of nai cha tea.
“Hey, Yu!” greeted Vincent, looking up from a page layout. The printed Chinese characters were still typeset by hand.
“Hey, Chin,” answered Jack.
“What brings you down?”
“There was a fire last night. In Queens. Was wondering if you covered it.”
“Was it in Elmhurst?”
“Yes. How’d you know that?”
“One of our junior stringers covers the emergency blotter in Queens.”
“And?”
“It came in too late for today’s run. We were lining it up for tomorrow’s edition, along with a piece on diversity, or lack of it, in the FDNY.” He made a few keystrokes and the news article appeared on his desktop screen, in Chinese.
Vincent translated.
“The Temple Garden Spa and Massage. A small fire. FDNY put it out within minutes, with just handheld fire extinguishers. Some carpeting, a couch, and window drapes were damaged. A worker claimed the fire started after-hours, caused by a careless smoker whose cigarette fell out of an ashtray. The fire lieutenant noted the smell of gasoline and termed the blaze suspicious. They were issued a fine for not having a working extinguisher at a business premises. Then a paragraph on fire-code regulations.”
“Anything on EMS?”
“Hold on. He wrote it as a fire piece.” Jack waited as Vincent scrolled to the end of the article.
“Okay, here. One man they took to Elmhurst General. A broken nose. There was a second man. Had a cut on his face. DMT. Declined medical treatment. No names.”
“Thanks, brother,” Jack said. “I owe you a nai cha.”
Vincent chuckled as Jack left the storefront.
He fired up the Mustang, and rolling against the flow of afternoon traffic into Manhattan made it from Confucius Towers to Elmhurst in twenty-three minutes.
He badged the supervisor at Elmhurst General and requested the overnight logs.
“What time was this?” she asked.
“I’d guess two-thirty to three-thirty a.m.”
“There was only one admittance around then.” She showed Jack his outpatient Medicaid information. Woo Sik Kee. Sixty-seven years old. They’d billed for Septum damage cartilage. Wheelchair, crutches for hernia. His photo a Chinese bulldog face. A Chinatown OG with a Mott Street address, 188 Mott. Just off Hester Street. Jack knew those streets well
, at the edge of the urban playground that was Chinatown.
“He left two hours ago. Someone picked him up.”
“Name? Sign-in sheet?”
“Right here.” She traced her finger to an entry.
“Dewey Lai.”
Jack knew dew lai was shorthand Cantonese slang for fuck you. The broken nose was a triad wise guy, like whoever picked him up. The gang’s little joke. He thanked the supervisor for her help.
There may not have been a crime committed, but he knew that the Luen Hop Kwok maintained a decades-long Chinatown crime file, and to one of the old-timer reporters, the name Woo Sik Kee might ring a bell.
He called Vincent Chin before weaving through heavy traffic back into Manhattan. The return trip took almost an hour’s worth of shaolin patience.
By the time he got to The National’s storefront, Vincent had the answers. Jack handed him the takeout cup of nai cha before he began.
“Woo Sik Kee is a longtime member of the Wo Lok, a triad. The Wo Group is a Cantonese subset, dating back to the eighteenth century. Now it’s just thirteen organizations, representing almost everything that’s got a Wo in its name: restaurants and coffee shops, bakeries, dry goods, produce supply and warehousing, gift shops, and, apparently, massage parlors.”
“Something extra, to relieve the stress, I guess,” Jack said.
“The Wo Lok, which has a dark history of murder and robbery in Hong Kong, was once the most powerful crime group there in the 1950s. But lots of infighting now.”
“How about our Uncle Woo?”
“Woo Sik Kee is a Wo old-timer. Used to be known on the street as ‘Whiskee’ because he drank Johnny Walker. Suspect in a fatal gang assault but got dismissed after the others fled. This was the 1970s. How old is he now?”
“Sixty-eight, according to Medicaid.”
“An ex hatchet man?”
“The Wo, with all their rackets. Drug trafficking, prostitution. Gambling, extortion, money laundering. Whiskee was probably an enforcer once.”
An old martial artist? Jack considered. Or just another clumsy Chinese slip and fall like Dup Choy?
He went to the Fifth Precinct and checked the desktop database. There were no records of crimes dating back more than a few years. Most of the crimes from the old days, including cold cases, had been manually logged, then copied and stored on microfilm. Little had been transferred to computer files. Most lay buried in the records dungeons of the NYPD.