Текст книги "Chinatown Beat"

Автор книги: Henry Chang

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Текущая страница: 9 (всего у книги 14 страниц)

The watchman came up. He said in halting Toishanese how he came upon the victim.

"I was making the rounds. The sing song gay, elevator, was stuck on the third floor and I went to check. The security camera out front was working, but the tape had already run out. It's the door custodian's responsibility, but he went to get takeout."

Jack showed him the lawyer's card. The man was hesitant, looked away and said, "That's his lawyer."

"You know them?" Jack squinted at him.

"Not personally, I mean. Just see them in the building."

"A lot?"

"Regular." He glanced at his watch, stared out the window, didn't say anything more. Jack felt the aura of death and bad luck around them.

"Leave your name and number with the officer," Jack cautioned him. "And get the elevator engineer to meet me in the basement."

The medical examiner arrived and Jack left him with the EMS, and the Crime Scene Unit, then hoofed it up the stairwell to the lawyer's office on Five.

The lawyer, C.K. LOO, JD, CPA, MBA, CFP, appeared to be in shock and was little help.

"I wasn't expecting him," he said vacantly, "but it's Double-Ten time. Maybe he came to extend salutations."

"Was that his habit?"

"During holidays, yes."

"Do you know of any reason why someone would want him killed?"

"None whatsoever. Everything's aboveboard."

"Is there a will?"

"Yes."

"Who benefits?"

C.K. Loo was monotone. "His wife, his daughter."

"Do you know if he carried life insurance?"

"Yes."

Jack stepped closer. "How much?"

"Two hundred thousand."

"The beneficiary?"

"His wife."

Jack scanned the man's desk, said softly, "How do you know all this?"

"My brother sold him the policies." He rubbed his forehead, adjusted his spectacles.

"What else?"

"Nothing." Loo shook his head.

Jack handed him a business card. "Hang around. I may have more questions."

C.K. sighed, shook his head some more. "A terrible thing," he said, "to die like that."

Jack left the stunned lawyer and went back to speak with the Medical Examiner. The paramedics had the body bagged and were rolling it out to the van on a gurney.

"I'll have an answer tonight," the M.E. said, packing his tools. He left and Jack watched the custodian mopping up the blood and the bad-luck superstition.

Afterward Jack went down to the basement, had the engineer bring the elevator halfway up. Jack borrowed his flashlight, checked the sides and the bottom of the elevator pit. No shell casings. Revolver, he thought, but no one heard anything. If a silencer was used, the weapon would have to have been an automatic, but he couldn't imagine a pro hitter stopping to pick up the shells. Unless it wasn't a pro. Unless the building workers did hear something but were just being Chinese, afraid to get involved with the law. Considering the contradictions, he returned to the lobby, felt the dead man's keys jangling in his jacket pocket. Six brass-colored keys on the ring. He saw that three keys had the word Kongstamped on them. The name of the locksmith, probably. The other three keys were newer, stamped Klein Hdw, a hardware-store set. He wondered what doors they would lead him to, and dropped them back into his pocket.

"Setup, "he said to himself, revenge or money, and headed for the Thirty Minute Photo Shop.

Rage

Golo crossed Hester Street, avoiding the uniform cops who were cordoning off the building's entrance with yellow crime-scene tape. The Hakkas followed a safe distance behind him, disappearing into the backstreets with their China White Number Four.

Back in his apartment, Golo took the Tokarev out from under his bed, loading it with an urgency that made his hand tremble when he inserted the clip. A scattering of images crossed his mind as he slid the pistol into the holster under his arm. Fifty thousand in Pandas and diamonds. He paced the apartment chainsmok– ing cigarettes, figuring it out. Mona, the whore. Had to be her. The old man must have blabbed about it. Forget it, bak gee seen-paper fan rank-was out of the question now. Lucky if they didn't kill him even ifeverythingwas recovered. The bitch, he thought, as he ran out of the apartment, was going today big when he caught up with her.

He waited on the street outside the China Plaza, nodded toward a sedan full of Dragons, before he fell in behind the Chinese mailman and entered the building.

Golo took the elevator to Mona's condo and crowbarred the lock, buckling the door frame as he forced it. He slipped out the nine-millimeter, stepped inside the large room. Empty. As he had feared, he was too late. The bed was made, nothing under it. He pushed back the accordion doors of the closet, saw belts, scarves, designer jackets and dresses with fancy labels. On the floor were more than a dozen shoeboxes, and a set of matching leather bags in different sizes. She left in a hurry. He holstered the gun, went through the lingerie and linens in the drawers. In the kitchenette cupboard, spices, chrysanthemum tea bags, plastic dishes, a set of tableware, were stacked neatly in place. A scattered mound of mahjong blocks was on the counter. The refrigerator was empty.

He found toothpaste, a bottle of astringent, in the bathroom.

Golo tossed the furniture quickly, found nothing. He went back down to the street, posted a Dragon at the entrance and sent one up to the apartment. He instructed the dailo, "Find me a black radio car with triple-eight-bot bot bot-license plates. It waits at a cab stand in front of Confucius Towers sometimes. Check out the garages along the backstreets. Bring in the driver." Golo's hard eyes narrowed. "For questioning."

Actress

Tam tai was the grieving widow draped in black, sobbing, hanky dabbing at her eyes, streaks of liner running. She was supported on the couch by Mak mui and Loo je. Jack smelled the heavy incense and saw the bot kwas facing out every window.

The only jewelry Tam tai wore was dark brown jade bracelets.

She spoke haltingly, with a slight Taiwanese accent. "He was a good man, I don't know who would want to kill him. The On Yees were his rivals, but everyone agrees there was peace this year."

Jack took a breath through his nose.

"Forgive me for mentioning, but there's the matter of the life insurance."

Tam tai didn't flinch, her gaze moving around the expanse of the living room.

"Take a look, detective," she said solemnly. "Take a good look around you." She paused for effect. "Do I look like a woman who needs money?"

Loo jeand Mak mui flashed indignant glances at him. Jack nodded respectfully as she smiled bravely.

"He had stomach problems the last two years. We were fortunate to get extra term life insurance." She sniffed, accepted tissues from Loo je.

"There was a whole life policy he had for forty years and he felt it wasn't enough. He had a daughter also, you must know."

Jack knew, but it wasn't any help.

"Where is she?" he asked.

"She's attending college in SaamFansi, at USF, but she's returning tonight."

Easy enough, he thought, to check her class schedule and call her professors, to verify her alibi.

"Where was he yesterday?"

"It was Double Ten. He had affairs to attend, with the Association: dinner, reception. He wasn't home until after ten."

"Could you be more precise?"

"I was in bed, but I heard him lock the door."

"When did you actually see him last?"

"We had breakfast this morning. He went out about eleven."

"Did he say he was meeting someone?"

"No, he never discussed his private business with me." She started sobbing again.

He produced the ring of keys."These were in his pocket. Are they the keys to this apartment?"

She took a closer look.

"I'm not sure," she said. "My set is on the tray, on the stand by the door."

He went over and sized them up. Her set of three, in a leather case, was also stamped Kong, and was a perfect match. He came back to her.

"These other three," he asked, "are they for here?"

"No." Her breath was short, quick. "Perhaps the Association."

"Ah sir," Loo je said sternly, "she must rest now. There are long hours ahead, and she needs to be strong."

Mak mui stood up, supporting the unsteady widow.

Jack again offered his condolences, gave Tam tai his police card and left them. When the door closed behind him he heard the sudden burst of wailing within, the g-wa foo, widow, dowager, anguishing for her lo gung, husband.

Old Men

Jack turned the corner onto Pell, going in the direction of the Hip Ching clubhouse. Long ago, the storefront clubhouse was where the Hip Chings had kept the cleavers, the long knives, axes and hammers, an occasional pistol. It was from there that they would strike out, across Doyer, the Bloody Angle, bow how doy-hatchet men-searching for On Yee fighters on the other side of Mott.

Now, the older members gathered here to meet, play mahjong, gossip, make assorted deals with the Chings' Credit Union. They no longer kept weapons there. The gang boys were packing them now, strapped on, outside on the streets.

Jack stepped into the storefront, into the dimly lit fluorescent space with wooden chairs lining the green walls. A partition closed off the back of the place. The clubhouse was empty, not even the old man sweeper who usually hung around chain smoking cigarettes, waiting for tips, was there. They must have seen the chaai to-cop-coming, Jack figured, must have exited the back door, to meet again at the Association, or in one of the coffee shops they operated.

Their little game didn't faze Jack. He was sure he'd find the old men soon enough. They were, after all, obligated to stick around for the funeral. He began to wonder if the murder was an On Yee double cross, and spent an hour working the dingy little coffee shops, leaving behind his bilingual calling card, seeking clues he knew would turn up in more than one language.

The entrance to the Hip Ching Benevolent Association was a gold-colored tile pagoda on top of cast bronze doors that opened to a red stairway leading up. Inside, the furniture was all black Taiwanese mahogany with crimson cushions flattened by the weight of old men.

The Hip Ching big shots said nothing of value to Jack, feigned ignorance because face overwhelmed everything else. How could they mention the mistress and dishonor their leader and his family in this cycle of grieving?

"Could it have been a grudge from the old days?" Jack asked.

"Everyone from the old days is dead. He was the last."

Jack showed them the keys.

"Except for the front, downstairs, our doors have no locks," one of the elders said. "There is a safe, but it has a combination lock. At any rate, Uncle wasn't involved in everyday affairs, only special events."

The old men could have saved Jack some time by continuing to dummy up. Instead, they offered up the Fuk Chou: Fukienese, newcomers, outsiders, troublemakers, claiming they were robbing Association member businesses at the outer edge of Chinatown. Uncle Four had issued warnings to them but had received only mocking derision in return. Ho daai dom, ballsy, those Fuk Ching kai dais, shitheads.

Jack had the uneasy feeling that he was being manipulated, but he thanked the old men, playing them the way they played him, the chaai lo-cop. They each shook his hand on the way out. Patted him on the back. Wished him good fortune. Outside the double doors, on the street, Jack smelled kitchen aromas venting into the sunset air, the restaurants firing up their woks for the dinner crush. He felt a gnawing hunger, but forced himself to isolate probable motives: money, or revenge. Or both. Forty-eight hours had passed, the trail was getting cold. He had the feeling that the killer had already bounced, and the only keys around weren't opening up any new doors.

Fuks

Carved with broad strokes into the black wooden board and gilded over with gold leaf, the Chinese characters announced Fuk Chou Village Benevolent Association. Beneath the sign the double door opened into a small office with a large window, looking out over East Broadway where it intersected with Pike below, Essex at the far corner.

The Chinese man behind the metal desk evaded Jack's questions, occasionally glancing at the video security monitor that focused on the door and the street below. The man was about sixty, balding, with an officious and gracious manner that began to sour the more Jack talked.

"We know," Jack said, "you run a gambling operation downstairs, in the back."

"Then you know," the man answered, "we paid this month already. What did you think, because you're Chinese you get an extra share?"

"Look, Uncle, a bigshot was murdered. Some voices say the Fuk Ching are responsible."

"You chaai lo are all the same, running dogs trying to squeeze more juice from hard-working brothers."

The words grated on Jack, made him hot under the collar. "I can subpoena your members, your records," he threatened.

The man grinned. "There is nothing to see, no one to speak to. We have nothing to hide."

Jack kept his poker face on.

"I can shut down the Twenty-Eight," he said.

The man whitened, glared at him.

"I see now, the Ghost Legion pays your salary."

Jack leaned in, said in a hard whisper, "Be careful, old man, your words may hang you one day."

The man looked out the window.

"First you send your punks to rob us, then comes the cop to finish it."

Jack's eyes widened. "There was no robbery report."

"Report what? To bring more dogs running?"

Jack's look devoured the man, but he said nothing. There was a long silence between them, then Jack pushed out of his chair and brushed back the side of his jacket, hand on his hip, exposing the Colt in the holster there.

A look of fear crossed the man's face.

Jack grinned, wagged a finger at him, said, "You have a sharp tongue for an old man. Careful you don't cut yourself," He turned and left the office, quick-stepped down the stairs.

If it wasn't a Fuk Ching execution, he was thinking, then it had to involve a double cross.

Clarity

Jack sank into his chair in the squad room, sliding the backs of his fingers across the hard stubble of his chin while contemplating the photographs from the Thirty Minute Photo. He'd started a new file under the heading WAH YEE TAM/Uncle Four, and was attaching the pictures when the phone rang.

"Fifth Squad," he answered. "Detective Yu."

It was the Medical Examiner.

"Small caliber," the M.E. said, "probably a twenty-five. From one to two feet, we got powder marks. The slug entered left back of the head, went through bones in the cranium. There's a piece in the frontal lobe just inside the forehead. That's the one that killed him. There's another entry wound further toward the center of the head that exited the top of the skull. Shot as he was falling forward."

There was a pause before he continued.

"The killer's probably right-handed, short, and the victim was dead before he hit the ground. I call it about eleven fifty-five a.m."

Not your average hitman's caliber of choice, thought Jack. Threeeighty, nine-millimeter, he could see. The twenty-two, the twentyfive, was a lady's round, made for those little pistols that looked like cigarette lighters, the ones with plastic pearl handles, toylike, plated gold or chrome.

The M.E. hung up andJack made the entries in the file, think ing, A big shot got whacked just before noon on a working holiday, a Saturday in Chinatown. Offices in the building open but nobody heard anything. Were they just being Chinese? Or did the shooter have a silencer? Empty elevator. No witnesses.

The setup was too good, Jack decided. Someone had gotten real close, someone the victim knew.

Payback

The item appeared in the late edition of the Daily News, a two-inch column in the Metro Section, sandwiched between a photo of an auto accident and a piece on condoms in schools. The headline ran "Man Shot in Chinatown" under which it read:

A man believed to be the undersecretary of the Hip Ching Benevolent and Labor Association, a Chinatown tong, was fatally shot near his lawyer's office yesterday, police said. Wah Yee Tam, 60, was found shot in the head execution style en route to his lawyer's office at 444 Hester Street at about noon. Police have no suspects and could not comment on motive, but they voiced the fear that the shooting signals a resumption of local gang warfare. Anyone with information is urged to call (212) 334-0711. All calls will be kept confidential.

In The Wind

The Yellow Cab had jerked to a stop.

Mona kicked out of the side door onto the curb, hurried toward the rush of commuters. She was a shapeless form, her head wrapped by the Hermes scarf, eyes hidden behind the Vuarnets, a black garment bag slung over her shoulder, as she stepped onto the escalator, plunging her down into the sea of heads. Inside, Penn Station was a blur of video digital displays, flashing yellow lights, red uniforms hunkered down in glass bunkers designated TICKETS, RESERVATIONS, DEPARTURES.

She left the baggy brown Chinese jacket she'd worn in the ladies' room, emerged in a black leather blazer, the scarf tied around her neck. All in black now.

The rental locker opened with a snap of the key, and she pulled out a hard-molded Samsonite Rollmaster, black with steel hardware, pulling it behind her as she drifted into the surging merging crowds, moved along by the blaring loudspeakers. She checked her watch as she went, weaving through the other travelers onto the platform, beneath the cool fluorescent lights, past the silvery metallic trains, past the throbbing engines.

Her private accommodations were on a sleek SuperLiner, the Broadway Limited, in a deluxe bedroom sleeper compartment that had its own shower and toilet, and an extra bed folded into the wall.

The trainman took her ticket, punched it, noticed her cherry lipstick and fingernails. He smiled, nodded, went his way down the platform. She stepped up into the Slumber Coach room, hung the garment bag and took the Vuarnets off. Closing her eyes a moment, she took a deep breath. Then again.

She locked the door, sat on the fold-down bed and removed a bottle of XO from the Rollmaster. She took a swallow to calm herself, lit up a Slims, opened the window.

The Broadway Limited pulled out of Penn Station and went west under the Hudson, emerging in the New Jersey Palisades. The cigarette burned down as she watched the New York City skyline blend into the overcast afternoon, into the rush of mountain scenery. She leaned back, blew smoke, and contemplated what she had done.

Killshot

The old bastard never recognized her. She'd worn a shoulder-length shag-cut wig, black with chestnut highlights, and streaked with amber. A deep red on her lips. With the French sunglasses that made her appear twentysomething, she'd looked like someone else entirely. He never saw it coming. A black garment bag draped horizontally along her left arm, the little gun folded inside the bag's zip-pocket. No one else around.

There was a scarf wrapped inside her black leather blazer, all of it covered by an oversized strident jacket that looked like cheap Chinese polyester. He was there, with the plastic bag, momentarily surprised to see her, a sin jeer, a young street girl. The elevator door opened, they stepped in. He smiled, looked away. She pressed three, stepped back as the doors closed. Behind him now, she raised the garment bag. There was no turning back. Time to say goodbye. The doors opened and she squeezed the trigger once, twice, into the back of his head, the little shells ejecting inside the garment bag. She grabbed the plastic takeout sack as he fell forward, stepped over his body, heard a gurgling noise, and hurried down the back stairwell.

Out onto the street. A block away, she shed the wig, slipped the scarf up over her head like a cowl, going quickly down to where Center Street became Lafayette and the traffic ran north.

She hid behind the French sunglasses and waved her arm at the oncoming traffic.

The streets flashed past through the cab window. She shifted the gun back into the fold of the zip-pocket, dared enough to glimpse gold coins and cash inside the takeout bag, and knew there had to be diamonds. Time rushed by under the traffic lights, and she started up a cigarette, imagining the urgent wail of police sirens, ambulances. The cab turned west, rolled through a green light and continued north on Eight Avenue.

She smoked the cigarette down to the filter, snuffed it in the side ashtray. Wiped her lipstick, checked her watch. Twelve fifteen. Twenty-eighth Street, Thirtieth. She got a ten ready, didn't want to look back when she left the cab. The streets ran by until Penn Plaza loomed up.