Riding the 4 train to Union Square, he would have had to switch anyway to the local 6 for the station stop at Canal Street, but instead of waiting eight minutes for the train—according to the countdown clock—he went topside, emerging under the big green kiosk at the southern edge of the park. He needed a place to sit and think and plan his method of attack. He remembered a great old New York bar a few blocks north, and soon, he was darting through the raindrops until he came to the Old Town Tavern, found on 18th Street between Broadway and Park Ave South. He walked in and felt at home.
Jimmy’s first thought, thank God it was still open for business. Too much of old New York had been swallowed up by chain restaurants, coffee emporiums, and banks, one of each per block, so it was heartening to know one of the dependable places was still serving it usual mix of brews and spirits. He ordered a Sierra Nevada on tap, settled on a stool before the copper bar top. There were a few people sitting around him, a mix of seniors and Millenials, just regular folk looking for a place to ride out the rain. So Jimmy sipped happily before taking out his phone. He was working, he reminded himself, this was a mere pit stop before the race resumed.
He did a basic Google search first, looking up Mr. Wu-Tin. He went to images first.
What he saw was a small man with a pursed face—judging from the other people around him, probably no more than five feet four. He was rotund and had thick black framed-glasses on his pudgy face. He wore a white business suit in every photo, a black tie. At least it made picking out your clothes in the morning easy.
He switched gears, seeing what information he could get from the web. First hit he received concerned the restaurant supply business, listed as having an address on the corner of Mott Street and Canal. No surprise there, probably a large warehouse that provided plates, pots, woks and the like to restaurants throughout the five boroughs.
Chinese food was big business in New York, from gourmet to hole in the wall take-out places. The quality of the food might change, the atmosphere too, but one thing remained a constant: the fortune cookie. It was always placed on the tray with the bill when dining in, or in the plastic packet of sauces and plastic-ware for take-out. It was folksy, hokey, yet today Jimmy felt it held an inherent danger, too. He thought again of the small package in his pocket, still considering cracking it open to see if the fortune inside was deliberate. He didn’t. He went back to his search of what he was dubbing the Fortune Cookie King.
Jimmy knew the business had to be just a front for more, much more. Frisano had intimated such. Mr. Wu-Tin’s import-export business was no doubt the money maker, the legitimate business that allowed him to launder illegal monies through. Jimmy had no doubt Mr. Wu-Tin’s network was extensive and international. He wasn’t interested in bringing it down. That was for the NYPD to handle. A little boy’s abduction, now that was another matter. That was personal, and Mr. Wu-Tin shouldn’t have used such a tactic to draw out the employee who had wronged him. It showed just what kind of man he was dealing with. A ruthless one, his moral compass off.
“Another one, sir?”
Jimmy realized he’d consumed his beer quickly while paging through the various sites he had located on the Internet.
“One more, then I should go. Work calls.”
“It’s Saturday,” the barkeep said.
“I like unconventional hours.”
“Hmmph, I work till four a.m., so I guess we’re in agreement there. This one’s on me.”
“Thanks,” Jimmy said, dropping a twenty on the bar and leaving most of the change.
Before he left, he tried another app he had on his phone. This one provided information not found in a general Google search; he could look up private addresses, businesses owned by people, criminal records, etc. A perk of being a private investigator. You found out stuff about people who didn’t want stuff found out about them. Including a certain Mr. Wu-Tin. One piece of information was just what Jimmy was looking for, and he smiled with hunger. His stomach grumbled, too. That tamale hadn’t been enough and besides, the dinner hour was fast approaching. He thought he’d start with an egg roll.
His second beer only half-finished, he gazed outdoors and saw that the rain hadn’t let up. Buckets were pouring from the sky. Not eager to face the harsh weather anytime soon, he nursed his beer, grabbed his phone again and dialed a number from his list of contacts. Saturday, he would probably get a voicemail. But that was fine, at least he’d get the ball rolling on an important matter.
“Jimmy, that you?”
“Oh, Melissa, wasn’t sure I’d reach you. What are you doing in the office on a weekend?”
“Philipe is in France, what’s an international widow to do? Work. What can I do for you?”
Melissa Harris-J’Arnoud was the chairwoman of Help Is Here, who during the past holiday season had been instrumental in hiring Jimmy for the Guardian Angel case, as well as later giving Jimmy a new avenue in which to pursue his investigative services. Sometimes you could help just because you could. Money took a backseat.
“A family in need, but I need your assurance this in on the down low.”
“I do love detective speak, Jimmy. You have my word. Illegals?”
“You’re good.”
“Been at this a while. It’s usually the first concern for the number of families that reach out to us,” she said. “You free to talk about it now?”
“Sorry, just about to work an angle on a case. But it’s related to why I’m calling. You may hear from a young woman named Carmen Ramirez. I believe she’s legal, same for her son, but her husband’s family is another story. Good, hard-working people from what I can tell. Just lacking some paperwork. Makes them afraid of the authorities. I thought maybe we could intervene.”
“I’ll await a call from Ms. Ramirez. Thanks, Jimmy.”
“It’s what I do,” he said.
“It’s what we all should do. It’s why Help Is Here exists. Thanks. Good luck on the case.”
Jimmy signed off, content that he’d gotten the ball rolling with Help is Here. Now, he had to see about the boy at the center of the Ramirez case. He knocked back the last of his beer and despite the rain, he ventured out. It had let up a bit, but his shoes and jeans were still damp by the time he returned to the Union Square subway station. He grabbed the 6 train, a local which four stops later released him at Canal Street.
The east-west thoroughfare of Canal Street was always busy, Jimmy found. Didn’t matter time of day, weekday or weekend, but today, even with the nasty weather the people were bustling about with equal parts determination and whimsy. The difference between locals and tourists. He saw many people of Asian descent carrying bags of fresh vegetables, groceries, no doubt ready to prepare dinner; the tourists were even more obvious in their NYC ball caps, stopping at any number of kiosks along Canal that sold knock-off purses, electronics, and other assorted plastic trinkets. Miss Kitty seemed to be popular, despite the fact she was of Japanese origin. Wasn’t everything made in China anyway?
Jimmy made his way east along the northern side of Canal. It was like another world here, with many of the storefronts sporting awnings and signs written in Chinese letters. Banks, too. As much as the Bronx was a melting pot of many ethnicities and languages, Chinatown was unique, an enclave that stayed true to the origins of the people who populated it. If you spoke English here, it was done so as a second language.
He found Mott Street, a narrow stretch of road that connected Little Italy to the north and Chinatown to the south. On the corner it wasn’t hard to miss the four-story faceless warehouse of Mr. Wu-Tin’s restaurant supply company. A large sign in both Chinese and English letters was only missing the neon for it to stand out more. Trucks were parked out front, various employees—all men—were loading or unloading boxes. Jimmy stopped, pretending to look at a bus map on the corner, stole a quick glance around. Trying to not look obvious in his curiosity. Nothing seemed untoward. Except for the fact it was the weekend, and such constant activity might seem un
likely. But restaurants operated every day, weekends big business, there was no telling when they might need to order more supplies, silverware. Jimmy was disappointed to not see anything suspicious that could help him. Not like a pallet of laundered cash was being delivered out in the open.
Nor did he expect a glowing sign saying, “Sonny is here.”
No doubt the notorious Mr. Wu-Tin had many resources, many places to hide money, no less a small boy.
Jimmy turned away, waiting at the crosswalk to head south on Mott. He joined a throng of people as they darted across the backed-up lanes of Canal, before continuing down the congested street, home to an array of restaurants. A man in the window was filling dumplings. Crispy ducks hung upside down in the window of several others. A couple shops invited you downstairs, pretty women holding menus trying to entice you to dine in their establishment.
He bypassed them all, a destination already in mind. Thanks to the search he’d performed on his iPhone, he knew exactly where to go, and at last he came before the front entrance of the Imperial Dragon, which from the outside appeared on the higher end of the dining spectrum than most of the others places he had passed. The letters were a bold red, flickering against the gray sky of this rainy day. Like a beacon, it would have called to Jimmy even had he not already targeted it. Why had he chosen this one? Because it was owned by Mr. Wu-Tin.
Jimmy stood under an awning across the street, oddly for a Baskin-Robbins ice cream shop. Not what he was expecting, but it served its purpose as he watched who entered the restaurant, and who left it. To him it looked like the usual bridge and tunnel crowd, getting out of suburbia for a bit of Saturday night fun in Manhattan. A large party of twelve entered the place, laughing as though they’d hit happy hour in Tribeca first. Jimmy suddenly realized it was he who would stand out if he dared ask for a table, but wasn’t that why he was here? To stir the wok?
He crossed the street, entered the main foyer of the Imperial Dragon, which was located up a flight of stairs. A young woman dressed in black and white silk with a red bow-tie nodded his way.
“Good evening, sir.”
“I don’t suppose you have a table available?”
“How many in party?”
Jimmy looked around him, saw no one. “Uh, just one. Me.”
“Ooh, very busy tonight. No reservation?”
“No, unfortunately. I was told I could just drop in and you’d find room for me.”
“Ah, who say that?”
Jimmy randomly thought of the old Ferris Bueller movie when Ferris pretended to be the sausage king of Chicago to get a table. While he didn’t take it that far, Jimmy’s mind conjured an entry that was almost as good, and as it turned out, just as effective.
“Mr. Wu-Tin. He’s a business associate of mine.”
Her facial expression held still, neither smiling nor acknowledging Jimmy’s comment.
“Of course. Be right back. Nice table for friend of Mr. Wu-Tin.”
It took all of two minutes before Jimmy was escorted to a table for two, where the second set of silverware had already been removed. Thick crispy noodles and duck sauce had already been set out, as well as a pot of tea. The hostess held out the chair for Jimmy, and he thanked her as he sat. It was a table against the wall, where an expansive fish tank stood, filled with innocuous marine life going about their lives, probably unsuspecting they could be someone’s meal soon enough.
“You would like a drink? Compliments of Mr. Wu-Tin.”
“Oh, well that’s not necessary,” Jimmy said, but then reconsidered. He’d already drawn the curiosity of the wait staff. “But, sure, I’ll have a beer. A Tsing-Tao?”
She nodded and disappeared, leaving him with an extensive menu and many concerns. This had been too easy, just dropping Mr. Wu-Tin’s name as though Jimmy were some long lost relative looking for special treatment. Surely there was more going on here. Jimmy kept his wits about him as he gazed about the large, open dining room. A mix of large party tables, like the group of twelve he had seen earlier, some just tables for two, four, six. Each was filled, and from all appearances the people were enjoying the food. Hunger hit him with renewed energy, so he figured that while he was here to garner clues in the disappearance of Sonny Ramirez, there was no harm in eating. Keep up his strength.
The beer arrived, a bottle and a glass. A waitress poured the beer, more foam than brew.
“You ready to order?”
He was. He ordered something called a Bird’s Nest, along with Hot & Sour soup.
She nodded politely before leaving Jimmy alone with his thoughts and observations.
That didn’t last.
Suddenly a tall, well-dressed Asian man was sitting across from him in the opposite chair, like he’d appeared out of thin air. He held a small glass of whiskey in his hands. He was probably forty, dressed in a sleek, sharkskin suit of gray. His teeth were not unlike the suit he was wearing on his thin frame, two of them with points that stuck out over his lower lip.
“May I help you?” Jimmy asked.
“We don’t know you, yet you toss around a name that intimidates the staff.”
“And you are?”
“I am the manager of Imperial Dragon, Mr. Wu-Tin’s trusted aide.”
“A pleasure. Thank you for accommodating me at the last minute on such a busy night. Odd this table was available but I’m appreciative nonetheless. I’ve heard only good things about the food. Your staff has been most pleasant.” Jimmy paused, not fooled by the hospitality being given at the moment. “For now.”
“You match the description of a man seen near the warehouse.”
Jimmy tried to downplay the accusation, true as it was. He hadn’t noticed anyone watching him, but wasn’t that the point of surveillance cameras? He hadn’t been as sneaky as he’d thought, the bus map not the fake out he’d hoped for. An unsettled feeling settled over Jimmy. No one knew he was on the case, right? Few knew there was even a case to begin with.
“I’m not sure what you mean. What warehouse?”
“At Canal and Mott.”
The manager then pulled out an iPhone, a photo already up on the screen. Jimmy stared back at his own image, which had him staring at the warehouse.
“Well, you got me there. I guess I did pass by it. It is along the way from the subway.”
“So, you come from Uptown, or perhaps Brooklyn?”
“I’m just visiting. From out of town. Heard about his place.”
“Yet you know Mr. Wu-Tin’s name, enough to use it to grab a table.”
Jimmy took a sip of his beer, wondering just where this was going. He wondered briefly if he should dare eat the food he’d ordered. If they were already suspicious of him, what lengths would they go in silencing him? He could nip this problem in the bud and make a quick exit. But Jimmy wasn’t one to back down. He leaned forward, narrowing his eyes.
“Have I done something wrong? I mean, I just came for the food.”
“You have come for much more, Mr. McSwain.”
That threw him, the fact they already knew his name. He wondered did they know what he did for a living. If not, they would find out soon enough. Which meant Jimmy was now working at a distinct disadvantage. This man knew who he was, quite the opposite for Jimmy. He might claim to be the manager of the restaurant, but he had nasty henchman written all over him. From the shiny suit to the pointy teeth, he was a hired gun meant to protect, to save, to inquire and to thwart. Jimmy considered how best to handle this situation. He went for the disarming smart-ass.
“So, should I have ordered the egg roll? I was worried it might be too greasy.”
“I think you didn’t come for the food.”
“A man does get hungry, might as well take advantage of where you are.”
“I think I don’t like you, Mr. McSwain.”
“Well, all I did was walk into your restaurant in search of dinner. Do you treat all of your guests this way?”
“No. Just guests who come with another agen
da. We know who you are.”
“Well, you have me there. Since I don’t know who you are. Care to exchange information?”
“You may call me Kenji,” he said.
“And Kenji, to what do I owe the pleasure of such personal service?”
“I am here to tell you to enjoy your meal, compliments of Mr. Wu-Tin,” he said, “and we hope very much that you will tell your friends. Good word of mouth is important to the success of any enterprise. But please, we only ask that you are not among them if they are to patronize our establishment.”
“So I’m not welcome here?”
“You have ordered well, McSwain. Please make it your last supper.” He paused. “Here.”
The threat was more than inherent, made more so by the fact Kenji had dropped the “Mr.” formality.
Kenji got up from the table, but Jimmy wasn’t done yet. “Is Mr. Wu-Tin available?”
“No, he is busy. Inside his office.”
“Oh, that’s too bad. But it’s best to stay indoors on such a rainy day,” Jimmy said. “Perhaps tomorrow will be Sonny.”
The inflection with which Jimmy delivered that final word made its desired impact. Kenji frowned before storming off, his departure much less dramatic than his appearance. Jimmy smiled. His waitress returned with his soup. He dug in, and hoped for the best.
§ § § §
If the subway back to Midtown was quick enough, it would land Jimmy back at 49th and Broadway by eight thirty, perfect timing for him to pick up his mother from the Calloway and escort her home. After a day in which he felt like he lived on the subway, he would be glad to give his MetroCard a rest. At least he was alive, having polished off his tasty dinner without incident. Even his fortune was innocuous. YOU ARE ONE WITH YOURSELF. Profound.
The rain had ceased, the gray clouds having moved on to soak New England. The night air was cool, perfect now for walking on the foggy streets of New York. All Jimmy was missing was a trench coat and he was Sam Spade reborn, albeit with a penchant for show tunes and hunky men. Such were his thoughts as he approached the lit marquee of the Harold Calloway Theatre, a place as familiar to him as was the McSwain apartment. Maggie had been the chief usher here for going on twenty-years, which meant Jimmy had grown up along its aisles and in its lounges. He occasionally filled in for a night when one of the regular ushers took off; it wasn’t his favorite job but sometimes a little extra cash helped.
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