“Rumors?” Jack lifted an eyebrow. “Like what?”
“Someone may say she was a hostess, a siu jeer, in the ka-la-ok. But she was a manager,” Fong insisted, “not a hostess. The newspapers, you know they like to make up stories.”
“There should not be any more shame attached to this story,” Gong added.
“I understand,” Jack said. Finally, there it was again, the reason for Jack being here: the ever-present Chinese concern about saving face, about the loss of face, fear of scandalous speculation, dishonor to their children, to their families, to themselves.
The fathers stood up, steeling themselves for the grim task ahead, delivering the tragic news to their families, each old man barely able to contain his heartbreak.
Jack wrote down their phone numbers.
“I may need you to come down to the station house later.”
“We have to make the funeral arrangements. We will be in Chinatown.”
It was 7:45 AM when Jack stepped back into the raw cold daylight of the Bowery, heading south toward Elizabeth Alley and the Fifth Precinct station house. Along the way, he stopped at Me Lee Snack and got a steaming cup of nai cha, tea with milk, watching the patrol cars roll in and out of Elizabeth Alley, hoping that the captain was an early bird and had already arrived.
The 0-Five house was the oldest in the city, a run-down Federalist brick-front walk-up built in 1881, just before the Chinese Exclusion Acts, when the area was known as the notorious Five Points, home to mostly Irish and Italians and a scattering of other European ethnicities.
Jack remembered the beat-up metal desk in the second-floor squad room where he’d worked the Uncle Four murder, and later, the Ghost Legion shoot-out.
Both cases were still open, investigations continuing.
Captain Salvatore “Big Sal” Marino was the CO, commanding officer of the Fifth Precinct. Jack remembered well all five months of the troublesome tour he’d previously served under Marino, during which more things went wrong than right.
In spite of that, Jack had gotten the job done, and the captain had personally quashed a subsequent Internal Affairs investigation. Later, Marino had quietly pushed for Jack’s promotion to Detective Second Grade.
In his stuffy office, the captain stood beside his big wooden desk, nodding his white-haired head as he said, “Homicide-suicide, open and shut. That’s what the watch sarge said.”
“Looks that way,” agreed Jack. “The ME’s got them now.”
“When they’re done, wrap it up. You can use your old desk in the squad room.”
Great, thought Jack sardonically, thanks a lot.
The captain gave Jack a puzzled look, grinned, then said, “You’re wondering why you, hah? It’s not like we didn’t have homicide cops available, right?” He straightened up from the desk, let his bulk loom toward Jack, and spoke in a confessional tone. “The call came down from Manhattan South.” He took a breath. “A PBA rep phoned the night watch. Then an accommodation came down the chain, capisce? They need a Chinese cop? Sure, why not? This group, wassit? The Nom San? Made a generous donation to the Widows and Orphans Fund last year. Some of their members are auxiliaries, volunteer police. So why not? They’re good fellas, right?” He put a hammy hand on Jack’s shoulder, saying, “So here you are.”
And here I am, thought Jack. Back in the ’hood.
“It’s not the usual procedure,” Marino continued. “But if the community feels a Chinese detective might be more sensitive to the investigation, I’m inclined to be accommodating.”
Jack mused, Always alert to an opportunity for some good PR. Of course the precinct was ready to cooperate with the skeptical community, especially for street information relating to the safety (gangs and guns) and security (extortion and gambling, drugs and prostitution) of the people of Chinatown. Always ready. CPR. Courtesy, Professionalism, Respect.
“Accommodating is good,” Jack agreed, fighting off a sneer.
“Exactly. Survivors don’t want bullshit finding its way into the newspapers.” He paused. “Especially with the Chinese press being what it is.”
“How’s that, Captain?” Jack asked, sensing racism. Jack remembered Vincent Chin, editor of the United National, Chinatown’s oldest newspaper. Vincent had assisted Jack in past investigations.
“Look, just be sensitive, hah?” Marino warned. “Obviously, they didn’t want to talk to a gwailo, a white cop.”
Sensitivity, Jack thought, was like diversity, affirmative action, and equal opportunity: convenient catchwords that people in command used to cover their asses.
“You work the paperwork any way you want,” Marino advised. “But I’m gonna be reading in between the lines. And you better be sure everything’s straight, by the book. You get my drift?”
“Right, Captain,” Jack answered. “I’ll keep you posted.”
“Do that,” the big man said, checking his watch. “And stay in the neighborhood. ADA Sing’s coming by at nine thirty.”
Jack knew that prosecutor Bang Sing, a rising young star in the DA’s office, was also a friend of Alexandra’s.
“You’ll need his updates on the Johnny Wong case,” said Marino, tilting his head dismissively toward the open door.
“Nine thirty, yes sir,” acknowledged Jack. There was an hour and a half in between.
Jack went right on Bayard, left on Mott, thinking of Billy Bow and the Tofu King, which was across the street from the Golden Galaxy club where May Lon Fong had worked. He continued past the dingy storefronts of his childhood, toward the billowing cloud of steam that rushed forth every time a customer exited the Tofu King. It had once been Chinatown’s biggest tofu distributor, but in recent decades, it had seen its fortunes decline in the face of cutthroat competition and rising costs. The Bows had resorted to promotional gimmicks to stem their loss of market share. Half-price early-bird deals for senior citizens. Leftover “value packs” after 6 PM. Three generations of a longtime Chinatown family, the Bows were hanging on against fierce Fukienese competition from East Broadway and the growth of the health-foods industry.
Billy Bow, the only son, was Jack’s oldest friend, his last hingdaai, brother, in the neighborhood, the one who hadn’t cut and run for the suburbs, who hadn’t fallen victim to gangs, drugs, or to the shakedowns that came from the tongs, or to the various taxes imposed by municipal thieves as well. Jack had worked in the Tofu King for three years, lost years, between the military and college and his job with the NYPD.
Billy was Jack’s extra ears and eyes on the street, and had a merchant’s insight into the tribal and political workings of the neighborhood. More than a few violent incidents had led back to business deals gone bad, and merchants were known to be involved with gambling cash and contraband deals.
Jack stepped through the steam into the humid shop and saw Billy in the back area with the slop boys. He scooped up plastic containers of dao foo fa, tofu custard, and bok tong go, a gelatinous dessert, and headed for the cashier, but Billy noticed him right away.
“Wai waiwai!” Billy yelled to the cashier, waving off Jack’s dollars. “His chien’s no good here!”
“Come on, Billy.” Jack shook his head. “You gotta stop doing this.”
“Fuhgeddaboudit, hah? Start the new year off right.”
“Thanks,” Jack said resignedly, “like always.” He pocketed his money and glanced out the fogged window to the other side of the street.
“What happened?” Billy grinned. “You back in the shit?”
“Nah,” Jack frowned, “just wrapping up a case.” He nodded in the direction of the yellow Golden Galaxy karaoke sign. “What’s going on down there these days?”