But only the people who had to went up and down.
Jack knew the rooftops here and how the apartments were situated. Mostly straight railroad flats and a mix of L-shaped, one-bedroom setups. People who really had money combined two apartments into one and occupied the entire floor.
Rent control ruled, but fong day, or key money, a codicil, gave landlords a cash trump card.
Along the way, Chinatown learned to play by its own insular set of rules.
THE STREET WAS a fresh layer of white. See gay drivers would keep their cars indoors during off-hours, saving themselves the trouble of scraping off eight inches of snow and ice before the next job, especially if they were working a wedding or driving out to a freezing Chinese burial at one of the cemeteries in Brooklyn or Queens.
There were only two indoor commercial parking garages in Chinatown. One was Municipal Parking, which was five blocks away on Pearl Street. A lot of local folks parked there. The other was more expensive, the Rickshaw Garage, which was just around the corner, a block and a half from Pell.
Jack decided to try Rickshaw first. Keep the car close to home. Always good to go, ready to roll.
AT RICKSHAW, JACK badged the garage manager, telling him a lie about investigating a stolen-car ring and requesting a list of long-term customers. He didn’t want his real inquiries leaking out in case an attendant had a cozy relationship with a driver.
The manager called up the annual accounts listing on the computer screen and showed Jack where to scroll the file. Jack quickly found the plate numbers he was hoping to find, numbers belonging to Mak Mon Gaw’s Lincoln Town Car.
“Can you check the key log and tell me which of these vehicles is presently in the garage?” Jack asked.
“Most of our long-term customers use their cars to get to work,” the manager offered. “Early birds, out at seven in the morning, back by seven at night.” He took a quick key inventory, checked off the garaged cars for Jack.
The Town Car was still out.
“Seven to seven, huh?” Jack said. “I’ll be back later.”
HE CONSIDERED RETURNING to the Fifth Precinct but didn’t want anyone reporting his ongoing investigation back to Internal Affairs. He also realized he hadn’t eaten since before getting whacked across the head the night before and decided to buy takeout before dropping by the Tofu King.
Billy was busy managing the afternoon tofu rush, but offered Jack the use of his quiet little office at the back of the shop, where he could enjoy his gnow nom faahn in peace while trying to figure things out.
Jack wolfed down pieces of savory brisket and wondered about Bossy’s driver. Sure, it would have been easy to slip the lobby door lock of number 8 Pell, go up to 3A and cop-rap on the apartment door. But banging on doors didn’t always work in Chinatown, not if people were illegal immigrants or didn’t respect the police, especially yellow police. He didn’t want his person of interest to get nervous, maybe disappear, before he could question him.
The man had worked for Bossy Gee for years. Maybe the family trusted him. Dependable, steady. Maybe he had some insight into the home invasion, about Bossy’s intentions, or about the Gee family indiscretions.
Based on the locations of his traffic violations, Mak Gaw was probably familiar with the Bronx, especially the South Bronx during an overnight illegal U-turn halfway between Booty’s and the possible crime scene at the riverside pocket park in Highbridge. He knows the area after dark.
Jack reviewed the copy of Gaw’s license. At five foot eleven inches tall, he fit part of the medical examiner’s profile of the knife-wielding perp.
Jack finished off the brisket with the rice, measuring the distance from person of interest to suspect. He considered the dark angles of Gaw’s surname.
Gaw sounded the same as gow, or gao, or gau, depending on the dialect and intent of reference. Based on the tone and accent, gaw meant “enough already,” “to rescue,” “a man’s penis” (luk gow), “to teach,” “a dog,” and “old style.”
The phonetics danced in Jack’s mind, teaching a dog in the old style. A lesson in payback?
The other part of his name, Mak, as in lo mok, was the Cantonese equivalent of “nigger.”
Having lived as a single man in Chinatown, Jack had found it convenient to buy takeout food regularly. Most single men didn’t cook and got by on a wide variety of Chinese takeout.
Sooner or later, Gaw will have to come out for food. If he parked during the afternoon, he’d surface around evening. If Gaw returned to the garage late, it’d probably be better to sit on number 8 and wait, Jack figured.
He passed Billy loading buckets of tofu and decided to check Rickshaw Garage again.
“YOU ONLY LEFT a couple of hours ago,” the manager said. He seemed annoyed as he checked the key log again. “It’s still early. Most of the long-term haven’t come back yet.”
Jack could see that Gaw’s Town Car was still out. “I’ll be back,” he repeated.
Outside, the snow had stopped falling, and the afternoon looked like evening. It occurred to him that if for some reason Gaw had parked the car elsewhere, he could very well be in the apartment already.
He left the garage through the Elizabeth Alley exit and went toward the Fifth Precinct down the street. He walked halfway down the block before he saw the undercover Impala he was looking for, the one he’d driven to Fort Lee the day before.
THE SERGEANT AT the duty desk looked like he was happy to be out of the cold. He said, “That old Chevy’s headed for the mechanic’s. Something hinky with the transmission, won’t go over twenty. Can’t catch anyone going twenty.” He paused. “And the heater don’t work.”
“That’s okay, Sarge,” Jack said. “I’m not chasing anyone. And I’m not going far.” Just four blocks and parked on a stakeout.
The sergeant raised his eyebrows, frowned, and blinked before tossing Jack the Impala’s keys. “Knock yerself out, Detective,” he said.
“Thanks, Sarge,” Jack said fraternally, stepping his way out of the Fifth.
JACK FIRED UP the Impala, let it idle a few minutes before he geared it. The Chevy sputtered away from the curb, and he made a right on Canal, another onto Bowery. Two blocks. He took a slow right onto Pell, saw the street was sparsely trafficked, saw a few customers in Half-Ass as he rolled by. He continued past Doyers, pulled the junker halfway onto the sidewalk down from Macao Bar, and killed the engine.
He adjusted the rearview and the driver’s-side mirrors to frame the street, number 8, and Half-Ass. Knowing it could turn out to be a long night’s stakeout, he took a few shaolin breaths and leaned back. He watched the street through the side view.
He knew it would be wise to proceed with caution, remembering getting slugged in the head and knowing that Singarette had been killed by a single knife thrust.