“Harlem isn’t on the way home to Brooklyn.”
“Is when you’re here. How goes the stakeout, detective?”
“Great if I were doing a feature on the customers of one drug dealer named Reggie. I need the tong to resupply him. Then I follow and have a location. That would give me something to work with.”
Samantha pursed her lips. In the long talk they’d had last night, she’d said that one thing she loved about him was the way he went after a story—and after it, and after it. That was until he became so obsessed, guns were pointed in his face. He wasn’t police, had no backup and sucked with his pistol. She’d said it all, exhaled, and finished with the declaration they couldn’t fight about what he was. What he was all about. Or they wouldn’t be a they anymore. She’d promised to try and keep her worries to herself. Right now, she looked to be fighting hard to do just that.
He slipped his hand into her back pocket. “I’ll be careful. Just want the location. The cops make a bust, maybe the Leung tong moving in on the Fronti family’s territory is on the table.”
“Just. Take. Care.”
“I will. Dead men write no tales.”
“The bad guys know that too. How late?”
“He’ll knock off in another hour or two.”
She kissed him and hugged him fiercely. He stifled a groan so the pain from his ribs wouldn’t ruin the moment. She walked south.
An hour and half later, Reggie, seemingly done for the day, walked north on Hamilton Place. That wasn’t his usual route. Taylor decided to follow. Samantha’s warning about lack of backup echoed in his head. But what if Reggie was getting resupplied somewhere other than where he sold? Taking actual precautions. Previous days, the man had always gone west to catch the subway on Broadway. The first day, Taylor had trailed him all the way on the train and above ground to a walk-up in the Bronx. The second, just to the subway entrance. Today was a change.
A hand gripped his arm. He half-turned to tell Samantha not to blow this for him, only to find the barrel of an automatic. One of the tong members from the Pacer aimed the gun at the side of his head. Reggie turned around, as if checking to see his job was well done, and sprinted away, disappearing up Hamilton.
“Funny, I’ve been looking for you guys.”
The man with the gun pushed it into the side of his head with some force. “Yell, and you shut up for good.”
Taylor grunted from the sharp pain of metal grinding into his skull. Another fish-bowl car, this one blue, pulled up next to them. The gunman opened the back door, shoved Taylor in and slammed it. Hamilton Place, a backwater side street crossing the grid, was the perfect place for a daylight abduction. No one was around.
The gunmen got in, turned and pointed the pistol at Taylor, a serious overestimation of the threat he posed.
“Mr. Shi wants to see you.”
“Can you spell it?”
“Bullet in the face.”
“Odd spelling.”
Chapter 17
The tong soldier with the gun slammed Taylor into a chair in the kitchen of Lin’s Garden. Slamming seemed to be his favorite activity.
Taylor would have laughed at the location if killers weren’t the ones who’d brought him here.
Best chow fun in town. “Paranoia Blues.”
Two men whirled food in woks so black-bottomed they looked liked they’d dropped through the atmosphere strapped to an Apollo capsule. Fire shot up from the stove in flame-thrower gouts. Waiters burst through the door, grabbed plates, yelled in Cantonese—those stretched atonal vowels—and left. The chef on the right side of the kitchen ceased his violent stirring, brought the wok over to a plate, and with great gentleness, arranged the food, which glistened as though lacquered.
The man, skinny and short, added exotic greens and other garnishes, took off his apron, folded it neatly, and placed it on the back of a chair. Then, taking the seat opposite Taylor, he ate with chopsticks, which moved from the plate to his mouth in a slow steady beat. He was graying and wrinkled around his eyes, though the skin on the rest of his face was smooth.
After watching the man eat for a few minutes, Taylor took out his reporter’s notebook and a pen. The gunman smacked him on the side of the head with his hand, grabbed the notebook, set it alight using the big flame under a wok and disappeared out the back door. When he returned, he dropped the metal spiral with a few charred pages still attached in Taylor’s lap. Taylor quickly brushed off the smoking thing.
His ear rang from the blow. Add that to the throbbing in his head from having the gun rammed into it when he was grabbed.
The older man finished his dinner, laying the chopsticks neatly parallel to the plate. “Bruce demonstrates the discipline we expect from our soldiers. You were not invited here to take notes.” Mr. Shi spoke in precise English with the slightest hint of an accent.
“I was dragged here.”
Bruce pulled back his gun, but the old man shook his head once. “You’re not with the police, this much I surmise. We’d have never brought you to this place if you were.”
“What do you do to cops?”
“We try and leave them alone. Mainly. Attracting the attention of the law is poor business. We have attempted bribes over the past few years.” He shook his head with a small smile. “But New York police were not interested. From us, the money was some sort of insult. This sort of racism is why our members need Leung society for their protection.”
“I’m a reporter.”
“Why are you interfering with business?”
“I’m doing a story on the drug war.”
“Which drug war is this?”
“Between your tong and the Fronti family over supplying heroin in New York.”
“I’m not aware of any such war. We’ve had no casualties.”
“You’re moving China White from the Golden Triangle. Some dealers are already peddling it. The Fronti organization brings in Afghani brown from Marseilles. What you’re doing is bad for their business.”
“The Italians lack discipline. With discipline and better product, one might find it easy to get dealers to sell the product. I speak in the abstract, of course. Not that it matters for you either way.”
“Bridget Collucci wasn’t killed in the abstract.”
“Who is Bridget Collucci?”
Taylor’s sorry ass was backed into a tight corner in a tiny kitchen. Only the one gunman guarded him, but he stood right behind Taylor, out of sight. Taylor didn’t see a way to make a move. Not yet. Keep talking. Keep Shi talking. Not for the story. To stay alive. He told the whole long tale of the murder of Bridget Collucci, leaving out not the smallest detail. He included facts he wouldn’t write when he did the actual piece on the drug war. Taylor expected to get cut off at any moment, but Shi listened patiently. Maybe that’s what Shi meant by discipline. Bruce shifted a step toward the back door and into Taylor’s peripheral vision.
“We had nothing to do with it.”
“She had bags of brown smack taped to her body. Someone was sending—”
“You told me brown heroin is sold by the Italians.”
“The police think it was a signal from your tong.” Actually only one cop, but now was not the time to make the story sound small. Now was the time to stretch the story to its breaking point. “The Italian mob doesn’t attack wives. They’re off limits. The police think the tong would. And did.”
Shi slammed both hands on the stainless-steel table. His plate leapt from the surface, landed and spun with a clattering noise.
“You see? This is why we must organize for protection. What sort of prejudice is this? The Italians don’t kill wives? But we do? The monsters from the East. We are the ones who truly respect family. Business is about discipline. Those animals have no discipline. None. What more is there to this police investigation?”
“Can’t reveal sources.” It sounded stupid soon as he said it.
Shi chuckled. “You’re going to be dead anyway.”
“I
sn’t it enough to know the NYPD and the Brooklyn DA are looking your way?” The truth snapped in two. He wouldn’t be sitting here if the cops and DA gave a shit about the tong.
Shi waved his right hand in dismissal. “Beat what information you can out of him and get rid of the body.”
“Did Bruce and some of his pals murder a woman named Mary Singer?”
Shi made a face like the meal he’d cooked had given him mild indigestion.
That’s about how much Mary mattered to him.
Bruce lifted Taylor out of the chair and yanked him toward the back door.
A waiter flew into kitchen, but in somewhat unusual fashion, stumbling and sprawling onto the floor as he came through. Behind him, Samantha stepped in with her revolver up and aimed.
Taylor, sensing Bruce move his gun toward her, threw his right elbow into the thug’s gut, grabbed a wok off the stove and smashed it into the man’s face. He went down screaming, blood spurting through the hand he’d brought to his nose, hot chow fun coating his hand and face. Taylor joined Samantha in three quick steps while she held the Colt on Shi and the chef. Bruce didn’t need covering at this point.
“Out of here now,” she said.
They dodged through the dining room.
Once on Bayard, Taylor and Samantha turned right and ran in the direction of the Bowery, the nearest major thoroughfare.
The tong’s AMC Pacer pulled from the curb at Bayard.
“Quick … up Mott,” Taylor said.
Mott was one-way running toward them. The pursuing car hit its breaks.
They sprinted on. Taylor checked behind. Three tong members were after them on foot. They’d left their car abandoned at the intersection of Mott and Bayard. Horns blared.
“We’ve got to get out of sight.”
At Canal Street, Taylor led them west. The sidewalks of the big east-west boulevard were crowded, obscuring Taylor and Samantha from their pursuers but also slowing them down. After a block, he turned down Mulberry Street. Midblock, Taylor pointed Samantha to a doorway. Locked. An apartment building. Diving into a shop would have been better, but there hadn’t been time.
Side by side, they flattened their bodies against the door. The three villains rushed past. Taylor and Samantha waited a full two minutes, which to Taylor stretched on and on, time slowed by his fear. He checked the block, waved Samantha to come.
Running back up Mulberry, they heard a yell from behind. Taylor and Samantha checked their rear as a tong soldier stepped from his own hiding place at the end of the block and brought up a gun. Samantha shot him in the knee as his arm passed four o’clock.
“That’ll slow him down.” Taylor squeezed her shoulder. “Up to Canal and Walker, down Baxter into the park.”
They ran harder than before. Out in the open meant a possible shot in the back. Taylor gasped for air; his old friends, his ribs, stabbed in rhythm with his breathing.
Samantha plunged into Columbus Park with Taylor close behind. Another park. And nighttime. What could be worse? Murderous tong guys catching them in the open. That was worse. They quickly worked their way until they were at the bottom of the park. They sat with their backs to a big tree facing Worth Street, which was on the other side of a hedge.
Samantha, her pistol ready, peered around the tree. “No one yet.”
Taylor pulled the .32 from his ankle holster. “Up against the wall this time.” He kept his voice low as they listened for the gangsters. “How’d you find me?”
“I staked out your stakeout.” He started to interrupt. “We can talk about that later. Saw them grab you but from too far away. Got lucky with a cab. Took a little to plan my attack. Needed to get the timing right with the waiters.”
“Oh you got it right. Perfect, even.” He pointed. “Other side of Worth are the courthouses. Whole area’s dead this time of night. Not a great option.” He paused and smiled. “ ’Course, One Police Plaza’s farther down. We could make a run for headquarters.”
“I shot someone.”
“You think the tong’s going to put in a complaint?”
“I left a lot of angry people on the job. I don’t think I’m ready to find out if I have any friends in the building.”
Crackling footsteps and voices, fairly far off and moving around in the park, not toward them yet. They might be searching in some zigzag pattern. They might be calling more people in. Taylor flipped his gun to this left and took Samantha’s hand.
She frowned. “You can’t even shoot straight with your good hand.”
“I’ll switch back when the time comes. And hope.”
Branches twitched right in front of them, the last place they expected their attackers to appear. They smiled weakly at an elderly Chinese couple, who still got a good look at the guns Taylor and Samantha tried to hide behind their backs. The couple immediately altered the course of their stroll.
As it turned out, the time for Taylor’s gun never came. The search must have gone off in another direction. Still, they waited a good half hour, and with no better option, hustled along Worth, cut between the federal and state courthouses, and ran from Pearl to Centre Street. Taylor turned away from the route to the Fulton Street subway stop. Samantha gave him a look.
“Don’t feel like being underground right now. Let’s walk across the bridge. It’s the last place in New York where someone can sneak up on you.”
They climbed the walkway to the Brooklyn Bridge, both checking behind them repeatedly. No tong soldiers followed. Just stragglers heading home on the route with the best view in the city.
He told Samantha everything he’d learned in the kitchen of Lin’s Garden, a depressingly short list considering the risks he and she had faced. “Got nothing on the story. Almost got dead if it weren’t for you.” He kissed her.
“What do you mean nothing?” She looked at him sideways. “He said the tong didn’t kill Collucci. There is no drug war.”
“What else would he say?”
“Why lie if he’s going to kill you?”
“You think he was giving me the truth?”
She nodded, her face somewhere between sad and angry. “You’re going to promise me no more stupid solo stakeouts.”
“It wasn’t stu—”
“Promise me!” Grim seriousness. “I agreed to keep my worries to myself. But not to let you go so far over the line. You went way over, following a pusher on your own. Into a trap.”
He was pretty sure only one answer would work here.
“You got it.” He sighed. “Don’t need to see a resupply now.”
He stopped at the rail. He put a stick of Teaberry in his mouth and chewed. The East River at night rushed by, looking free of pollution from this height. Of all things, the crew of the Clearwater and Pete Seeger with his banjo came to mind. They faced a bigger challenge than he did. Didn’t make him feel better.
The temperature was an easy 70, cooler up this high with the breeze off the water. New York Harbor looked itself again, at the same time, empty with all the ships gone to wherever they went. To his left were the Brooklyn docks, dumping place for Bridget Collucci’s body.
“What’ve I got? The tong didn’t do it. Who did? And why? The tong is bringing in China White but Shi claims they’re not at war. He’s all about discipline. The goddamn truth is the only bodies are Collucci’s and Mary Singer’s. Connections are what count. I find the connections, and I know what’s going on in a murder. If there are no connections … I got nothing.”
“You’ll figure it out.” She put her arm through his. “No chow fun for a while either.”
He had to laugh at that, though concern continued to furrow her brow.
The view of Manhattan, a glimmering manmade mountain range, usually provided a good prospect for contemplating a problem. Not tonight. He thought hard and no ideas came. Mary was dead. He couldn’t let go of that.
A news story was like a train, facts coupled, one after the other. If Shi had been telling the truth to a man he presumed would so
on be dead, Taylor’s train had derailed and spilled its cars everywhere.
The lights of downtown Brooklyn sparkled in the way of an older city. Taylor and Samantha strolled on the downward slope toward the ramp off the bridge into Brooklyn Heights.
“You have every right to as many I-told-you-sos as you like.”
“I’ve had my say.”
“Just because you want the big story doesn’t mean it’s real. The sad news is this isn’t the first time I’ve learned that lesson. Need to remember it this time.”
He caught one last glimpse of the water where someone had sunk Bridget Collucci’s body.
Chapter 18
Taylor picked up a message from a Dobbs Ferry detective named Charlie Dove. He groaned and put his head against the glass of the phone booth in Yonkers, hoping this wasn’t about the O’Malley’s violent visit to the Collucci house last week. He didn’t have time to get tied up in a small-town police investigation. No surprise it had taken Dove more than a week to get to him. Townies could take a week on a trespassing charge.
“I want to talk to you about Carl Collucci.” Dove’s voice was quiet, halting even—more like the local pharmacist’s.
“How’d you find me?”
“Heard about a New York reporter working on a story. After that, it wasn’t so hard.”
“Did Collucci make a complaint?”
“Don’t know about any complaint. I believe Carl Collucci murdered his wife.”
Taylor pulled his head off the glass of the booth. “Why are you telling me?”
“The city cops won’t talk to me. The FBI—”
“You know about the surveillance,” Taylor said.
“Town clowns, right? What do we know about serious federal investigations? What I do know is everything that happens in my town. Of course, I know the FBI is here. I tried to talk with them. The senior agent threatened my job. Threatened me. No one’s listening. I heard you were sniffing around town. I checked you out. Some nice stories in the Messenger-Telegram. I miss that paper, by the way. Took me a while to find the Bureau of City News.”
“City News Bureau.”
“Right. Doesn’t sound like a newspaper.”
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