by Henry Chang
Clues
When Jack reached the intersection, Lucky was already on the corner of Bayard. Lucky jerked his chin sidewise and disappeared into the Wah Rue bookstore. Jack crossed the street, followed him inside.
Lucky patted Jack down, saying “You did good, Jacky boy. Was the money good enough? You need more next time?”
Jack clutched Lucky’s probing hand, squeezed the fingers hard. “That’s funny, Tat, but I ain’t wearing a wire. You owe me, anyway.”
Lucky jerked his hand free. “That’s right,” he said, “and I got something for you.”
Jack’s eyes narrowed. “Shoot.”
Lucky grinned. “Shoot, ha ha, a cop joke, ha?” He paused. “I got the girlfriend.”
“Where?” Jack asked with a poker face.
Lucky took him over to the back racks, sliding his hand along the display of ink brushes, wrapping paper, periodicals, until he stopped and yanked out a Hong Kong Star magazine. He led Jack through a back exit into a small courtyard lined with bok choy crates and garbage cans.
Jack held his tongue while Lucky flipped through the pages. He could hear the rattle and crash of a fan-tan game somewhere below the building.
“Her name’s Mona,” Lucky said, stopping his finger at In Concert pictures. “Here, looks like this one, Shirley Yip, the singer. You know which one?”
Jack took the magazine, studied the glossies of the singer in a sequined dress, in a black miniskirt, in a hat and wig get-up.
“Thirtysomething,” Lucky said. “A real looker, maybe a hooker.”
“So where is she?” Jack deadpanned.
“Gone with the wind, Jacky. Only the Shadow knows.”
“That’s all you got?” Jack was impatient.
Lucky made a face, said, “Hey, I still didn’t get nothing. I want the undercovers, identities, names.”
“Oh yeah. I’m making a list, checking it twice,” cracked Jack.
“No, no, cuz,” Lucky wagged his finger, “I don’t need no list. I want pictures, know what I’m saying?”
Jack spread the magazine, tore out the pictures. “It’s gonna take time,” he said softly.
Lucky lit up a Marlboro, spread his hands out and said, “You see me? I got nothing but time.” And exhaled into Jack’s face.
Jack held his stare for a moment, then said, “You know the Twenty-Eight got ripped off the other night?”
“Good for them,” Lucky said coolly.
“Took fifty G’s out of there. They claim you did it.”
“Me?”
“Ghosts, the man said.”
Lucky’s face changed. “Wasn’t my crew,” he said.
“Don’t know nothing about it, huh?”
Lucky was silent, and stood like that a while. The chatter and curses of the fan-tan game echoed somewhere below them.
“This where it ends for you?” Jack asked. “Gambling? Blood money from poor working suckers?
Lucky let the smoke roll out of his nose. “Hey, Chinese like to gamble. Nobody makes them come down.”
Jack sneered. “Yeah they do, everybody makes them. Everything they see makes them come down.”
“You’re bugging out, cousin.”
“They want what everyone else’s got, and they know money talks.”
Lucky laughed small. “Don’t get holy, man. It’s a Chinaman thing, okay ? You got a beef, go yell at OTB. Shit. It’s just a living, man.”
“No, it’s not. I know how it works. Turn the cash into dope, jewelry, gold. Wash everything through Hong Kong banks. Goes in a big circle, right?”
Lucky flicked the cigarette butt, snuffed it with a twist of his heel.
“What you get over there, Jack? Thirty-five, forty G’s with overtime?”
“It’s honest money.”
“That’s what it cost to turn you against people used to be your friends? Against working people who never had no beef with you?”
Jack’s face tightened. “We only bust the bad ones, Tat Louie.”
“Bullshit. We take care of the bad ones. You guys just come for the money, to keep score of the bodies.”
Jack glared at Lucky.
Lucky relented. “Maybe not you, Jacky, but cops, you know it. Look, fifty G’s, you work for us. Nobody’s gotta know. Strictly information stuff. You don’t touch nothing dirty.”
Jack looked up from the courtyard, saw the oyster-colored sky above the rooftops they used to run across.
“What?” Lucky smirked. “You think you’re gonna make sergeant and retire here? Don’t kid yourself. I won’t make the offer again.”
“It’s not about money,” Jack said.
Lucky sneered.
“It’s all about money, ain’t a damn thing funny.”
Chase
Jack sat by the open window in Pa’s apartment, studied the magazine pictures and repeated Mona quietly, trying to figure her in his head, guessing. Mona, on the run, away from New York City, to somewhere else Chinese where she could disappear, come back in another guise. A major Chinatown, but away from Boston, Philadelphia, Washington. The picture was getting clearer. Los Angeles, San Francisco, Seattle. From Lor Saang she could flee into Mexico. San Francisco, Seattle, she runs north to Canada.
He took a shot of the mao-tai.
Was she still in the country? He thought so, hoped so. Uncle Four would never have allowed her a passport, and the cheap see— mistress—wouldn’t have had the nerve to troll the underground for fake identification. She probably didn’t speak English, so all the arrangements would have to be in Chinese.
He began to list her characteristics on a sheet of paper. Traveling by plane? They’d have to cover the airports, just in case. More likely she’s in a car, something low key, a bus or train maybe. Or a boat? Heading east? Chinese in London, in Amsterdam. He doubted it, didn’t figure her to head into bad weather.
Going west, he decided, adding details of Mona to the composite.
She’s a Chinese woman, Cantonese, maybe traveling alone, probably traveling light. Thirtysomething, five-foot-two, short hair. Fashionably dressed. Might have booked passage to Mexico or Canada.
He buffed up the profile, made it bilingual, offered a reward, sent it by e-mail via the squadroom computer to the thirty-seven travel agencies in the Chinese Business Directory, to the ninety agencies in Lower Manhattan. Then he thought about covering the funeral, and cleaned his Detective Special while he tried to dope it all out.
Chaos
The Dragon war-wagon cruised to a stop, a huge black sedan with four doors, lurched back out of the crosswalk and sat on the corner of Crosby and Broome.
The three Chinese hard boys inside wore black leather jackets and beat-boy sunglasses. Straight black hair cut to fades. The one with the small ring in his earlobe came out and walked diagonally across the street to where the black Lincoln Continental was parked at the curb. He saw the triple eights on the license plate, saw the car was empty. He crossed back to the Buick and they waited, playing thirteen-card poker and smoking cigarettes. Waited for the six-o-clock rush.
From the Buick they saw the old man approach the black Lincoln, stop at the driver’s door. Put the key in the handle. By the time he noticed them closing in, the door had swung open.
Gee Man yanked the keys out and took a step backward, turning to flee. But they were upon him, grabbing at him as he lurched down the street. The keys fell from his hand. He noticed people stopping to watch, the words go meng, save me, stuck in his throat. The hard boys brought him down.
“Matsi!” he yelled, “What’s up?! I have no money.”
He did his best to kick out at them in his desperation. He heard himself shouting, like from inside an oil drum, an echo. Pressure building up inside his chest. They were dragging, half-carrying him back toward the car.
“What do you want?” he kept screaming, until the pumping in his heart seized and the lights inside his head went to black.
The Dragon boys dropped Gee Man when he clutched up and foa
med from his mouth, left him lying on the cobblestone street, his eyes rolling and flickering, a block from the radio car.
The Buick roared away from the corner, as the evening-rush crowd continued trudging into the sunset.
It was a quarter to eight, almost the end of Jack’s shift, when the patrol caught it. Old Chinese man, DOA at Downtown Hospital from a heart attack. Witnesses claimed deceased was attacked by gang kids, who rifled his car.
That could make it a homicide.
Jack took the plate numbers off the report, ran them in the computer—Motor Vehicles, Taxi and Limousine Commission. He crossed into personal overtime when the information floated up on the monitor. Gypsy franchise number 888. Jun Yee Wong. 444 Eighth Avenue. Brooklyn. Didn’t match the victim’s fact sheet.
Sunset Park. Jack’s eyes twitched. About five blocks from his studio, in the Seven-Two Precinct.
Golo bit at his lower lip, tearing tiny pieces of skin from it between the edges of his teeth. He dismissed the gang boys and sat in the dark in the back of the clubhouse.
The Dragons had come back with keys and the driver’s address from the car registration, but had left behind a body in the street and many witnesses. He decided not to use them again, the street boys having a way of complicating things. And they may have brought the police into this. He’d have to follow through by himself.
He scanned the papers taken from the triple-eight car. The address was in Brooklyn, around the new Chinatown, he figured. Wait until nightfall. And bring the Tokarev.
Clash
Jack buzzed across the Brooklyn Bridge, came up Eighth Avenue until he found the numbers he sought. The street was dead quiet, lined with four-story brick walk-ups that contained a Cantonese herb shop, a Malaysian bookstore, a Maria’s Bakery outlet. All closed.
The lock on the door of 444 was loose. No doorbells, no intercom. Jack jiggled the knob. After a moment, sure no one was on the street, he slipped his bankcard behind the lock and popped it.
Went up to 3A.
He listened for a few moments. No sounds from inside. He had started twisting the doorknob when the door swung in, just a crack. Unlocked.
Jack put his back to the hall wall, posted his badge, drew his Special. He pushed the door open with his foot, letting hallway light spill into the apartment. He reached in, flicked up the switch inside the door.
The apartment was lit by an incandescent yellow glow. Empty. Looked like someone took off in a hurry. Takeout food left behind. Clothing. Unmade bed. A toaster oven, small color TV. Chinese newspapers, racing forms, OTB bet slips.
Jack holstered the revolver.
A dead driver. A missing driver. Another dead body he didn’t need. Turn it over to the Seven-Two.
The man appeared suddenly in the doorway, a Chinese man returning Jack’s surprise with a nod and a quick scan of the room before he turned to leave.
Six-two, maybe, Jack thought, tall for a Chinese. Jack caught him out on the landing, the man turning, his eyes focused on the badge.
“Ah Sook,” Jack began, “uncle . . .”
The man’s hand shot up off his hip, surprising Jack, shoving him sideways. The man shifted as Jack twisted, spun in a small circle and folded down into a cat stance. Caught his breath. He thought he saw a pistol inside the man’s coat. The tall man launched two sharp kicks at Jack’s head, grunting, forcing him to one side. The hallway closed in on them. Retreating, Jack kept his punches short, Wing Chun style, clipped the taller man under the side of the chin. The man retreated into a crouch then uncoiled in a lashing of Tiger Claw and Iron Fist that drove Jack backward onto the steps.
The man feinted a chop, reached into his coat. Jack reached behind himself for the Special. The man turned to run, a pistol coming out of his coat.
The hallway exploded with gunfire. The tall man ran, fell, rolled down the stairs clutching for the handrail, laying down a barrage of semi-automatic fire that pinned Jack to the stairs, gaining the time he needed for escape.
Before Jack reached the ground floor he heard the squeal of car wheels laying rubber across the avenue. On the street, he could barely make out the taillights fading in the distance. The tall man was gone.
Jack went back to check for bullet casings. There were nine, and also a smear of the tall man’s blood on the banister, which he dabbed up with Alexandra’s handkerchief. Jack never noticed, until he called in the incident to the Seven-Two, the thin trickle of blood that ran down his left arm and soaked into his shirt cuff.
Drift
The Holiday Inn was a mile from the Greyhound Terminal in Los Angeles, the last stop, just outside of Chinatown. Johnny checked in, tried calling Gee Man again. Nothing. Probably was out with the car.
He walked toward Chinatown, flexing the stiffness from his legs, feeling secure enough with the Ruger handy. He bought a Chinese newspaper, had coffee with cold dim sum. Then the picture in his head got huge, the headlines of the newspaper bringing sudden clarity: Revered Leader Murdered in New York. A two-page spread with color photographs of Uncle Four.
Mona, Johnny thought immediately.
Flow
Golo rubbed the pungent teet da jao, herbal liniment, into the bruise on his elbow until it was stained brown. He leaned over the sink and poured peroxide over the bloody gash on his left forearm, over the strawberry burns on his palm, scraped when he crashed down the stairs ducking the chaai lo’s bullets.
Dew ka ma, fucker, he grimaced, applying white adhesive tape over gauze bandages.
He put on a dark suit for the funeral, and wondered how long it would be before the Red Circle inquired about their gold and diamonds.
Questions
The King Sin coffee shop was nicknamed “half ass,” as much for the neighborhood dive it was, as for the second-rate oiliness of its home- style cooking. It was a hole-in-the-wall joint, down from the park, on the edge of Ghost Legion territory. Six tables, a counter, a closet-sized short-order grill kitchen, and a cooler full of soda and juice.
Lucky looked inside, swung his gaze around, went in, looking back over his shoulder. Empty. The lo wah kue, Chinatown old-timer, with the greasy white apron, plucked up his cleaver from the slab of beef in the steamer, nodding with a smirk as Lucky sat down. After a minute, the man served him a plastic plate of hom gnow, corned beef with boiled cabbage over rice, King Sin’s best dish, available nowhere else in Chinatown. Lucky looked out the door to the street, saw the Ghosts in the park, felt the butt of the pistol taped to the underside of the table. He paused and seemed to compose himself for a serious undertaking, then began eating, fork to mouth, his eyes never leaving the door.
Jack stepped in and filled his view, took Lucky’s gaze with him back to the small, grimy table.
Lucky put the fork down but Jack spoke first. “I’m looking for a hitter, maybe fifty years old. Big guy, bald head, good with his hands. Shoots a big piece, a Nine. Gotta be from Chinatown.”
“Tall man, right?” Lucky knew. “They call him Golo. Enforcer for the Big Uncle. Connected to the societies in Hong Kong. Hung kwun, bloody stick, all that shit.”
“Sounds like you ain’t a true believer.”
“Red Circle Triad, big deal. It’s all hocus-pocus to us. We don’t give a shit here. We got the juice. Hey, Hong Kong’s the fuckin’ other side of the world, right?”
Jack nodded. “So where the fuck is he?”
“What do I look like? That guy on TV, the fuckin’ Shell Answer-Man?” Lucky spit out. “And not for nothing, Jacky, but don’t come here like this next time, okay? It don’t look good, us together.”
Jack looked behind him, saw the Ghosts in the park, got up. “Tomorrow morning, after the funeral,” he said walking out.
“Upstairs.”
Dirge
The funeral was an elaborate affair befitting a leader of Uncle Four’s stature in the Hip Ching hierarchy. A hundred black limousines shut down traffic for ten blocks all around Chinatown. All the radio-car boys were hired, their Towne Cars and Con
tinentals trailing the Fleetwood flower-wagons, overflowing with wreaths and bouquets from every Chinatown florist.
Through the gray morning rain, the procession was led by a fleet of Cadillac Calais-class cars, which only the Chao Funeral House used, the owner having won the fleet from a heroin importer fronting as a car dealership. The line of cars was wet and dark, shimmering in the drizzle, like a long black snake curling its way through Chinatown. It stopped momentarily at the Hip Ching Association, then at Confucius Towers where Uncle Four had resided. At each stop a funeral band played a plaintive dirge, and groups of Chinese women mourners whimpered together in the same tone, forming a low wail that sounded like the buzzing of bees.
On Mott Street the entire Ghost Legion wore black, two hundred members forming a shadowy wedge under the ominous sky. Local residents stood with their heads huddled together under umbrellas, like a sea of black bobbing mushrooms.
Fox News set up alongside Channel Seven, amid a phalanx of photographers from the dailies, who were perched on top of folding stepladders. The Federal boys—DEA, FBI, Treasury— hid openly in a brown Ford van with blacked-out windows, cameras whirring behind them. Conspicuous agents trying to look inconspicuous.
Jack stood on the corner of Bayard Street behind black sunglasses and watched as the last chapter of the old man’s life unfolded.
What about the girlfriend? He flexed against the bandage the hospital had patched over his bicep, felt a dull stinging burn. The trail was twisting, getting colder, and he began to feel like he was losing it.
From translucent sky came a fine mist falling upon the scatter of umbrellas.