Lo Fay took a breath, saying matter-of-factly, “To do the will, and to handle the life insurance.”
Jack waited for him to go on.
“He wanted me to arrange immigration matters for her. Applications, like that.”
Jack said, “And you have a check to show that he compensated you for these services?”
“I’m not looking for trouble, officer,” said the lawyer looking away. “He paid me in cash.”
“How very Chinese.”
“Everyone prefers cash,” Lo Fay said. “It’s the American way.”
“And you work for the Association?”
“Don’t misunderstand. I only handle the Association’s accounts with the funeral parlors.”
“Right, the death business,” Jack said knowingly. “It’s a complicated affair.”
“Lots of legalities when you die,” he answered.
“Like who gets what?” Jack added.
“Like who follows up, who takes care of the spirit,” said Lo Fay.
The spirit? thought Jack.
“You have to consider Chinese tradition,” the lawyer said. “The afterlife is just as important.”
Jack thought of Pa’s death, and the cemetery at Evergreen Hills. He leaned away from the charlatan lawyer, saying directly, “You know what it’s like in the afterlife?”
“Well, no. But people should be optimistic at death.”
Optimistic?
Both men were quiet a long moment, the interview at an awkward end.
Jack shook his head contemptuously as he left Lo Fay’s office. He remembered the Kung family’s murder-suicides, the brutal killing of the delivery boy, Hong, the bodies around OTB, and couldn’t find any optimism about death.
Touch on Evil
The two watches taken from the Jung brothers ran like they were synchronized, accurate to ten seconds of each other. Jack figured that one of the brothers had set both watches.
The Rado found on Lucky had stopped at 4:44 that afternoon. The worst numbers a Chinese can get, Jack thought. Lucky’s time really had run out.
Jack decided to bring the watches along, just to see what the old wise woman would get from them.
The little copper-colored slug was a.22-caliber long rifle round, a high velocity bullet generally used in target-shooting competition. Jack closed his hand around it, shaking it in his fist. The small piece of metal bounced around. It weighed next to nothing, he thought. It was barely bigger than a grain of nor may, sticky rice, yet the minute projectile figured prominently in the deaths of two people, and had reduced Lucky to a comatose state.
Wise Woman
He found Ah Por at the Senior Citizens Center, on a bench near the kitchen volunteers who were still ladling out the last of the free congee.
He showed her the watches first. She held them up to the light, frowning at the rectangular black watch faces. Black. Bad luck times three, he imagined her thinking. She said, “Gee sin” quickly, and made a flapping motion with her free hand, fanning herself. Gee sin, a paper fan. Another arcane clue, mused Jack. Paper fan? He knew better than to question further, and took back the watches.
He removed the twenty-two bullet from the plastic ziplock bag and handed it to her.
Ah Por cradled the little slug in her palm, bouncing it gently like she was checking its weight. She closed her gnarled fingers around it, and squeezed. Closing her eyes, she jerked her head slightly, as if surprised.
“Ma lo,” she said distinctly, and this time it was clear to Jack she meant monkey. Bad monkey, just as he’d suspected, and was now certain. Keung “Eddie” Ng was the missing shooter.
Jack thanked Ah Por, folded a five-dollar bill into her bony hand, and exited the center through the crowd of old gray heads.
Wanted Person of Interest
Back at the 0-Five, Jack reviewed the Gang Intel files, and put Eddie’s photo, tattoos, and name on a wanted bulletin that would reach out electronically to a million eyes, searching into the wind after a clever monkey.
Mercy and Love
Bo waited on Mott Street until the Temple of Buddha opened its doors. Inside, a recorded chant came from behind the large wooden carving of the Goddess of Mercy. Bo burned some incense, kneeled before the goddess, and recited the prayers for Sai Go that she’d offered during the night.
On the way out she bowed to the statue of Kwan Kung, God of War, and went down Mott Street holding back her tears.
White Face
Jack watched as the men in blue windbreakers shuttered every known gambling establishment on Mott, Bayard, and Pell Streets, including the mahjong rooms, massage parlors, and karaoke clubs.
The OCCB, Organized Crime Control Bureau, supported by state troopers, ATF agents, and U.S. Customs and Immigration officers, raided the Association headquarters of the On Yee, the Hip Ching, and the Fuk Chow.
While prominent white lawyers protested on the Associations’ behalf, the cops arrested every known Ghost on sight, and also hauled in the Dragons and Fuk Chings for good measure. The brazen gangboys were made to take the perp walk for the news reporters, ducking their heads to hide from the cameras, trying to avoid the humiliation of extreme loss of face.
The blue task force raided Chinatown apartments, basements, and warehouses for contraband goods: counterfeit designer handbags and computer software, watches, cassettes, and bootleg cigarettes. Department of Transportation marshals followed them and towed away all the gangsters’ muscle cars.
The 0-Five, backed by the outside layers of law enforcement, was sending a signal to all the tongs and gangbangers on Fifth Precinct turf, a hard-fisted notice that the NYPD blue gang was not going to tolerate the wanton violence that had brought embarrassment and critical scrutiny to their stationhouse.
The cops didn’t really give a shit if the gangsters killed each other, Jack knew, it was only politics. When the wind died down, the stench would return.
The pictures of seized contraband and the perp walks were published in the daily papers to show that the police had flexed their muscles, and were firmly in control of Chinatown.
One Police Plaza measured its comments, still wary of the fickle media.
Captain Marino called Jack and thanked him personally for his assistance, wishing him well on his return to the 0-Nine.
The United National, Chinatown’s oldest newspaper, ap-plauded the many Associations for their cooperation with law enforcement, for contributing to a safer neighborhood. Vincent Chin’s editorial pointed out the need for Chinese community-liaison officers, and more bilingual civilian employees in the local precincts.
The headlines in the New York Post announced NYPD MOVES TO END GANG VIOLENCE, CRACKS DOWN ON CHINATOWN TONGS.
The Daily News printed photos of the dead gangsters, labeling them “modern-day hatchetmen of the new tong wars.”
The Metro section of The Times printed a picture of Keung “Eddie” Ng, wanted as a person of interest by detectives of the Fifth Precinct.
Jack knew they meant Detectives Hernandez and Donelly.
BAI SAN, Paying Respect
January eighteenth was Pa’s birthday. Jack went to the cemetery alone, bringing the pair of potted hothouse Dusty Millers he’d bought at Fa Fa Florist. The cemetery grounds lay beneath a blanket of white, hard drifts that had piled up against the sides of the old mausoleums. The headstones were covered by white caps already melting in the morning sun, trickles of water running down toward the frozen earth.