Текст книги "Death Money "

Автор книги: Henry Chang

сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 9 (всего у книги 14 страниц)

Flash-Forward

HE AVOIDED THE living room, only glancing around it in passing. He’d wiped away the streaks of blood from his head gash that had smeared against the couch and carpet. The luxurious leather furniture combination, arranged in a feng shui pattern, was still as pristine as ever. No prospective buyer could possibly know that the old man died there, on the carpet, next to the ottoman.

His father, bound hands and feet, choking inside his duct-taped mouth. The memory froze him breathless.

Terror in the old man’s eyes.

He poured another shot of XO.

Three men in ski masks, brandishing guns and knives, had gotten the drop on them.

Snubbed out the Cubano cigar.

They’d pistol-whipped him and taken cash and jewelry.

He took the rest of the alcohol back up to the bedrooms, trying to shake the flashbacks.

Somehow, the police arrived, freeing them. Suffering the loss of face, the humiliation.

He viewed the front of his property through the large picture windows. Downed the XO. I can’t stay here much longer, he knew. There was going to be some more payback coming, and he didn’t intend to be a sitting duck here. He needed to be very low-key. Disappear, and let the Hong Kong Triad do its work. He’d want to keep his remaining son, Frank, out of harm’s way, but he’d sponsor the Black Dragons to continue hitting the Ghosts wherever they spread to.

The lakeside trees were bare, but the evergreens still framed the house in green and lined the driveway approach.

He took a long breath and found calm again. A fresh brushing of snow had covered over the gray slush, and everything looked picturesque. The sales agents had posted a sign at the beginning of the driveway.

In the distance a car turned onto the lane, slowing as it passed the other houses. He tried to remember if they were showing the house today.

The car came to a stop at the driveway, idling opposite the FOR SALE sign, spitting little puffs of steamy exhaust from its tailpipe. Is it a prospective buyer coming for a look at the house? he wondered. Or someone who’s lost trying to circle back to the highway? He waited for some movement from the car.

JACK SAT BACK in the Chevy and admired the big house at the far end of the fancy white-gravel driveway. The FOR SALE sign presented 88 Edgewater Lane, an offering by Golden Mountain Realty. The biggest house in the neighborhood, fronted by the luckiest Chinese numbers, thought Jack, three levels tall. A long, private driveway. Roof deck. Probably has a pool and a hot tub out back. He remembered the “monster homes” news item and wondered how one man’s American Dream had ended in a fatal home invasion.

AFTER ABOUT FIVE minutes, the car nosed into the driveway. He half expected it to reverse back into a U-turn, but it rolled slowly toward the house. As it came closer he could see that it was an old car, a beat-up junker, not the type of vehicle usually seen on the rich side of Edgewater.

It stopped well short of the house. The little puffs of steam stopped streaming from its rear, and he knew the driver had killed the engine.

He resisted the urge to bring his chromed nine millimeter out of the armoire drawer. No one is going to get the drop on me again. He put the alcohol down on the dresser, watched the car from behind the curtains. A man got out and crunched his way across the gravel to his front door. A Chinese man in a parka, who struck him somehow as being American born, a jook sing. The man looked around covertly as he rang the doorbell.

JACK WAITED WHILE the door chime rang out a melodious tune. Waited another minute before hitting it again. Knocked on the door forcefully.

“NYPD,” Jack heard himself announcing. “I’m here to speak with Gee saang, Mr. Gee.” As far as he could tell, there were no lights on in the house. No cars in the driveway. He waited and weighed checking the sides and rear of the house.

MAAT LUN SI ah? he wondered. What the fuck? A New York cop in Jersey?

Everything was locked down, the alarm company on point ever since the invasion. The Chinese chaai lo cop was tripping the motion detectors, was being recorded on the surveillance setup.

He kept quiet and continued to watch from behind the curtains.

IT DIDN’T SEEM like anyone was home, and Jack didn’t want to set off any alarms on the property or in Bossy’s head.

Playing by the book, he backed off to what he thought was the property line and observed what he could. A path to the lake area behind the house. No vehicles anywhere. A patio area that looks unused. Apparently no one home.

THE PHONE SOUNDED somewhere in the bedroom. He found it under one of the pillows and recognized his office number calling. He hoped the cop hadn’t heard it.

“Maatsi?” he asked his receptionist. “What’s the matter?”

“You had a visitor,” she answered. “A chaai lo.”

“Yes.” He knew. He’s outside now.

“He left his card, asked that you call him.”

He thought for a moment, saw the Chinese cop circling to the far side of the house. “Call him back now,” he instructed, “and tell him I’ll be in the office in two hours.” He had no intention of letting him into the house.

“Ho ah,” she acknowledged and hung up.

He rushed to Franky’s room to get a better angle. He saw the cop pull a phone from his jacket. The conversation was short, and the cop took a last look at the house before turning back toward the junker in driveway.

JACK GOT BACK in the Impala, fired it up while replaying the receptionist’s words in his head. Two hours was plenty of time to get back to Bossy’s office, but he knew now there were more answers in Chinatown than in New Jersey.

He wondered about the receptionist and why Bossy’d hired a mature woman instead of some young tart eye candy, which many Chinatown offices featured. She acted like she’d worked there awhile, and Jack thought maybe she was loyal to him, protective.

He had time enough for a quick som bow faahn when he got back to Chinatown, and a few words with Billy Bow.

The car spat steam again as it crunched gravel back toward the highway.

Franky Noodles

THE NOISE LEVEL in Eddie’s was amped, and they both leaned in over their Three Precious plates of rice, som bow faahn, to hear each other.

“Francis Gee?” Billy grinned. “Really?”

Jack nodded as he forked up a piece of soy-sauce chicken.

“Everybody in Chinatown calls him ‘Franky Noodles,’ Billy continued. “Hangs with the Black Dragons. He ain’t no fighter; he’s a rich-boy wannabe. Daddy’s got some juice.” He jabbed up a piece of for ngaap, roast duck.

“The Dragons still working out of that spot behind Half-Ass?” Jack asked, working a forkful of cha siew, roast pork, and fried egg.

“Yeah. I hate those motherfuckers as much as I hate the Ghosts, you know?”

“Yeah,” Jack agreed, knowing Billy hated the thugs and gang culture ruling Chinatown. “He got any beefs?”

“The usual shit between the Dragons and Ghosts. But he’s a player,” Billy sneered. “Drives a tricked-out red Camaro. Acts tough because he knows Daddy can bail him out.”

“Sounds like you don’t like him, man.”

“I hate them all.” Billy chomped a chunk of for yook. “Punk asses giving us hardworking Chinamen a bad name.”

“Right,” Jack agreed, thinking about Half-Ass restaurant and Franky Noodles on Hip Ching–controlled Pell Street. “You got that right.”

THE RECEPTIONIST AT Golden Mountain buzzed Jack in and stalled him while she announced him over the phone intercom. The door to the inner office was open, and he saw a big desk and a pair of club chairs inside.

He took a brochure that had a smiling thumbnail shot of James Gee saang and a business card from the tray on her desk.

She waved him in, rising from her secretarial seat.

Once inside, Jack saw how small the office actually was. James Gee stood to one side of the carved Chinese desk. He was as tall as Jack but had a thick build, thirty pounds overweight made to look neat in the expensive gray suit. Jack suspected his shirt and shoes came with designer labels attached as well, a CEO power-meeting getup straight out of businessmen’s GQ.

Jack noticed how he combed his short hair straight back, old-school style, the way the Chinese barbers on Doyers Street still cut hair.

The door closed behind him as “James” Jook Mun spoke first. “Chor,” he said imperiously in smooth Cantonese, “have a seat,” motioning in the direction of the club chairs. He wore a haggard edge beneath his eyes that his smile didn’t soften.

Jack imagined the faint scent of whiskey and cigars in the air as he sat, quickly scanning the room. There was minimal decor, just a few low file cabinets lining one wall, above which were some framed photos of James with other Chinese men posing with Fraternal Order of Police organizations.

The wall behind the desk featured awards and photos of Chinatown civic groups, a plaque from the Senior Citizens’ Free Breakfast Program, a miniature American flag. He didn’t see any family photos at all.

“Mr. Gee,” Jack began, wanting to start off respectfully before he got to the hard questions.

“Before we begin, Detective,” James interrupted, “there’s something I’m curious about, that I’d like to ask you first.”

“Sure,” Jack said agreeably. “Go ahead.”

“My police friends are much older than you,” James began, “closer to retiring. A few of them have inquired about security positions in our commercial buildings.”

Jack nodded politely, let him continue.

“The problem is, most of the businesses are Chinese, and these policemen are not. Nor do they speak Chinese. I don’t think the tenants can be happy with that.” He paused, sized Jack up with a curious look.

“You said you had a question,” Jack said.

“I was wondering if someone like yourself might consider a security manager position? There aren’t many Chinese policemen, and we both know the pay could be better.”

“I’m happy where I’m at right now,” answered Jack with a small smile. “Someday, maybe, but thanks for the consideration.” Friendly enough so far, he thought.

James held his smile, but something calculating flashed in his eyes.

Jack sensed that they were like two boxers—martial artists—feeling each other out, circling and measuring before throwing punches. He reached into his jacket and took out the snapshot of Singarette, dead in the river. He slid it across the desk and watched it nail James’s attention.

James stared at it a moment before picking it up.

“I’m investigating the death of Jun Wah Zhang,” Jack said.

James said nothing, waiting for the rest of it, with the frozen smile on his face.

“Know him?” Jack asked.

“No.” James frowned.

“Never seen him?” pressed Jack.

“Never.” He slid the snapshot back to Jack, shook his head. “It’s sad when people die.”

Jack nodded his agreement, adding, “He worked at one of your restaurants.”

“That may be,” James acknowledged. “But I don’t know all the workers in all my businesses. There must be hundreds.”

“He may have had problems in your restaurants,” Jack added.

“I have no idea about that,” James said coolly. “I leave that to the managers.” He flashed his Cheshire Cat grin again. Like he knew it’d come to nothing, thought Jack. If anything, he’d throw one of the managers under the bus.

“So you have no idea what might have led to his death, Gee saang?”

“Absolutely no idea.”

Both men took a breath at the pause.

“Where were you four nights ago, Gee saang?” Jack asked abruptly, “between eight and ten P.M.?”

An incredulous look froze James’s face. “You actually think I killed someone, Detective?”

“It’s just to eliminate you as a suspect,” Jack answered deftly with copspeak. “Just a formality.”

“A formality, sure,” with a snicker, humoring the jook-sing cop now. He casually checked the calendar blotter on his desk. It didn’t take a minute.

“I was at a Chinatown fund-raiser. At On Luck restaurant.” He said it confidently, like he knew it would be verified. An airtight alibi. “Ask any of the managers.”

“What if I tell you”—Jack leaned forward—“that Jun’s death leads back to your house?” He watched as smooth James Gee saang slowly became Bossy Gee.

“My house?” Bossy looked puzzled. “Get to the point, Detective. What are you implying?”

“It may have to do with the home invasion you suffered recently.”

Bossy leaned back, frowned toward the file cabinets. “I don’t see any connection to that. And I don’t like to talk about it. My family is still in mourning. And I explained everything to the New Jersey police already.”

“I understand your grief,” Jack said.

“I don’t think you do,” Bossy said. “My father died a horrible death, suffocating, and a heart attack.”

“It’s possible Jun gave your address to the home invaders,” Jack continued.

Bossy shook his head, annoyed now, the chaai lo trying his patience. Not so friendly anymore, thought Jack.

“Where are you getting all this?” Bossy asked skeptically. “My family doesn’t need any more bad news.”

“It may have to do with a gambling debt,” suggested Jack. Bossy took a breath, sighed. “Troubled employee, gambling debt, home invasion,” he said dismissively. “Aren’t you taking this a bit far, Yu?”

“Only as far as I need to, sir,” Jack countered.

Bossy paused, his annoyance quickly switching to resignation. “What does your father do?” he finally asked.

“Keuih jouh yee gwoon,” Jack answered. “He was a laundryman.”

Bossy cracked a smile that was almost a sneer, trying hard to mask his disdain for the American-born son of a laundryman. Jack didn’t miss the contempt in his eyes.

“My father,” Bossy said, glowing with arrogant pride, “was a hero in Chinatown. Ask anyone. A great man.”

A great man, thought Jack sardonically, who made dirty money off the vices that tugged at the souls of the lonely, isolated bachelors of Pa’s generation. A “great” man, who was a tong member and Triad leader who trafficked in paper sons and concubine wives, and alcohol and opium. Jack bit his tongue to keep the words from coming out.

“Isn’t that even more reason to bring to justice those who cost him his life?” he asked instead.

“Look, suppose what you say is true,” Bossy said. “Who do you think did it?”

“That’s what I want to ask you. And I can’t comment on an open investigation,” Jack responded with more copspeak.

“Of course not.” Bossy smirked. “How convenient.”

“How’s that?” Jack narrowed his eyes.

“That you can make these allegations, without substantiating what your sources are.”

“C’mon,” Jack jabbed. “Who did it, Gee saang? Who do you think the perpetrators are?”

Bossy took a shallow breath through his nose. “I have no idea. That’s what I told the New Jersey police.”

“White, black, Asian?” Jack pressed.

“They wore ski masks and gloves. And it happened so fast I never got a good look. They all wore black sneakers or work boots. One of them had a shotgun.”

“Your gut feeling?”

Bossy shrugged. “The Jersey police seemed like they thought it was a ‘Chinese thing.’ But they could be gwai lo devils for all I know. Maybe people who worked on the house. Deliverymen. It could be anyone.”

“Why’s that?”

“Someone said ‘no fears’ when they were beating me.”

“‘No fears’?”

“Right. In English.”

“But why your house?”

“Who knows? There are people in this neighborhood who objected to me building this house. There are people who resent us for being successful.”

“You mentioned that to the police?”

“They didn’t want to hear it. I guess a ‘Chinese thing’ is more convenient.”

“They just blurted out ‘no fears’?”

“No. When they were pushing us around, I told them they were making a big mistake. They were binding my father at the other end of the living room.”

“‘A big mistake’?” Arrogance even in the clutch of armed thugs?

“I said it in English first. When I didn’t get an answer, I repeated it in Chinese. Then one of them belted me a couple of times with his gun. That’s when someone punched me and said, ‘No fears.’ I was down and bound before I knew it.” He took another breath before continuing. “Since then, I’ve discovered there have been a number of home invasions in this county. Some of the victims were Asian. The only ones arrested were gwai lo whites—I guess they resented tong yen for having money.” He checked his watch, a shiny gold Rolex, showing his impatience now.

“I have a meeting to get to, Detective,” he said.

“If you know who did this, and you want to keep the police out of it so you can resolve matters yourself, it’s a bad idea.”

A sneer muscled onto Bossy’s lips again. “I’ve cooperated fully with the police. I hope they do their job.”

“And if Jun did get killed because he gave up your address,” Jack continued, “and you know something about it and keep it from us, that could incriminate you as well.”

“I’ve got nothing to hide.”

Almost as if on cue, the receptionist’s voice came over the phone speaker on his desk. “Your car is waiting downstairs now,” she announced. Bossy stood up behind the desk, indicating the meeting was over.

Jack stood up as well. “Thanks for your time, Gee saang,” Jack said coolly, heading for the door before turning back again. “Just one more thing. I’ll need to speak to your son. Frank, is it?” He watched Bossy’s face turn pink, then red.

“Why?” Bossy’s eyes narrowed. “He wasn’t there that night.”

“Just routine.” Jack smiled into Bossy’s taut mask. “Just to eliminate him from the scenario.”

“Well, he doesn’t come home much. And he keeps changing his phone number.” Bossy’s eyes showing Jack to the door now.

The son trying to evade law enforcement? Jack dropped another NYPD detective’s card on the desk.

“If you speak with him, please ask him to call me.”

“Certainly,” Bossy replied, but the look on his face said, Like hell I will.

Jack went out and nodded to the smiling receptionist as he left. When he got downstairs, the street was crowded with late-afternoon activity, but he didn’t see Bossy’s car waiting anywhere.

He decided not to wait for Franky Noodles’s phone call and went up Pell to pay Half-Ass a visit.

When he passed Doyers Street, he noticed a red Camaro parked at the bend, halfway onto the sidewalk. Bossy’s kid must be in the vicinity.

Half-Ass looked like its name: a half-ass paint job on a half-ass renovation of what was once a Chinatown association front. A Hip Ching tong storefront on the shortest street in Chinatown.

A simple hand-painted sign hung above the door and picture window. In big-brush block letters KONG SON RESTAURANT, with a few smaller Chinese characters and the number 9, for 9 Pell Street. Kong Son was the official business name, but local jook sings—American-born Chinese, or ABCs—had nicknamed the place Half-Ass for its appearance. But their fast-food plates were notoriously popular. It was a place frequented by locals and Pell Street regulars, with a big takeout trade to tong affiliates. It was a pit stop for Chinatown truckers and car-service jockeys breaking for a quick hit of Chinatown comfort food.

Pa had brought Jack here many times as a kid.

HE PUSHED IN through the squeaky aluminum door and ordered a cup of jai fear at one of the stools along the coffee counter, casually scanning the room as he waited. The small front tables empty. He glimpsed a customer stepping away from the hot-plates counter: short, maybe five-six but built thick like a foo dog under the tight designer leather jacket. Moving like he thought highly of who he was, carrying a generous plate of gee pa faahn back to his table of gang-bangers. They were Black Dragons, easy to see by the dragon tattoos on their hands, arms, and necks.

Turning to the steamy wall mirror above the coffee and tea stations, Jack viewed the gang near the back wall. The round table had a group of eight: four young Chinese gang-bangers, three of their groupie girlfriends, and, from the memory of a scowling cemetery photo in Jack’s mind, one Francis “Franky Noodles” Gee. The Foo Dog.

The other gangsters tried to keep their backs to the wall.

The girls looked fourteen but were probably eighteen and wore a dozen tropical colors highlighted into their feathered hairstyles. The four wannabes wore spiky punk hair and leather jackets, looked more like players in a rock band than stone-cold fighters in a vicious street gang.

The girls nursed their bubble teas and giggled while the guys cussed, smoked cigarettes, and drank fluorescent-colored soda.

Franky, who looked noticeably older than the pack around him, was the only one chowing down this afternoon.

Jack’s cup of jai fear arrived, and he spooned in some sugar without taking his eyes off Franky. It was clear to him that Franky wasn’t Sing’s killer. Too short, according to the ME’s profile, and, as Jack could see watching him fork a piece of pork into his mouth, not left-handed.

Leaving a dollar on the counter for his coffee, Jack stepped to the Dragons’ table, attracting wary looks from a few of them. When he pulled back a chair and sat, the table went silent.

Jack quietly laid his gold shield on the table and pulled back his jacket to reveal the butt of his Colt Special. Franky gave the groupie girls a look, and they left Half-Ass, carrying, Jack knew, the gang’s guns in their knockoff designer handbags. It was common practice in Chinatown gangland; no one got busted for weapons possession, and any cop who pulled a gun would have to justify it.

Franky and Jack glared at each other, but both knew better, wisely choosing to play it cool and see what the deal was before they ruined Half-Ass’s afternoon.

“So what?” Franky said, shrugging as Jack put his badge away.

“So I just met with your father,” Jack said.

“That right?” Franky’s nonchalant response drew sniggers from the four Dragon boys.

“Know what for, Francis?” Franky’s frown indicated he didn’t like the mocking way Jack used his name.

“You picked up your weekly bribe?” he countered. All the Dragons snickered.

“You really want to talk ‘home invasion’ in front of the scrubs?”

The snickering stopped.

“Better check the streets, boys,” Franky said, “before your dailo gets pissed off again.” They left Half-Ass as Franky went back to scarfing down his pork-chop rice. “I wasn’t home that night,” he said between bites.

“I know you have an alibi for that night,” Jack offered.

“Yeah, and like I was going to rob my own family, right.” Franky shook his head.

“But if it’s got anything to do with why a body floated onto my desk,” Jack said, “you’d better say something now.”

“I don’t know anything about that.” Smooth, like his father, like he had experience being coached by counsel.

“Your B-team tuned up a Ghost named Doggie Boy and got my victim’s name.”

“I don’t know anything about that, either,” Franky repeated coolly.

“Then a couple of weeks later, my vic winds up dead.”

“Again, Detective, I know nothing about this.” Franky’s tone, like father like son, was superior. “But if what you say is true, the Ghosts should be your main suspects.”

“You like the Ghosts for the home invasion?”

“Sure. You say they had the information, they’re good for it. And those fuckers are the only ones with the balls to pull it off.”

But why would they kill Sing? wondered Jack. Not like Jun Singarette was going to talk about any of it.

“That’s not enough,” Jack said.

“My father told you about one of them saying, ‘No fears’?”

“He did.”

“‘No fears’ is the slogan of some of the senior Ghost boys’ crews. They think they’re hot shit.”

“You told your father this?”

“What do you think?” Franky said.

“I think Ghosts hit your father’s house,” Jack said. “But I don’t think they whacked my victim.”

“That right?” Sarcasm again.

“I think you guys got the real motivation,” Jack said. “Like payback.”

“Wasn’t me,” Franky said. “Wasn’t us.”

“Where were you four nights ago?” Jack pressed.

“Gambling, like every night.” Franky sighed. “Then karaoke, in the basements.”

“Going to be a lot of witnesses for that, I bet.”

“Yeah, right.”

“Give me a reason to believe any of that’s true.”

Franky finished his gee pa, pushed the plate aside. “Give me a reason why I should even continue talking to you.”

“No, you give me a reason,” Jack said, “why I shouldn’t have Traffic Division ticket and tow that shiny red car of yours every time it’s in Chinatown. Tell me why I shouldn’t get your probation violated over hanging out with known criminals in a known organized-crime location. Tell me why your Chinese ass doesn’t want to get sent back to Rahway or Trenton State, even for a minute.”

Franky was taken aback by what Jack knew about him.

“I didn’t violate nothing,” he said meekly.

“You’re violating my intelligence, kai dai, so let’s stop fucking around,” Jack said. “You all beat my vic’s name out of your rivals, and he winds up dead.”

Franky took a breath, licked his lips. “But I didn’t violate nothing,” he quietly insisted.

“Maybe I don’t think you did it. But I know you know something about it.”

“Okay.” Franky surrendered an answer. “I would have done it, gladly, if Father hadn’t shut us down. He never liked the gangs involved in our family business and forced us out of it.”

“He was going to handle it?”

“I didn’t say that,” Franky said. “I’m just telling you that we didn’t do it. Not me, not my boys.”

“Your father kept you out of it?”

“Correct.”

There was a silent moment as Jack fought back a smile. He’d let Franky Noodles off the hook for now but realized he had a new angle on Bossy Gee. If father and son didn’t do it, who did?

On the street outside Half-Ass, he could see two Dragons peering into the storefronts, moving along.

The answers, Jack had a hunch, were here, on this street, in the Hip Ching gambling den behind Half-Ass, at Bossy’s realty office, and in other locations in Bossy’s underworld. But not now, Jack knew, not in daylight. He’d return after dark, he decided, when Chinatown nightlife controlled the streets.

He watched as Franky Noodles waved to the counterman on the way out, suddenly in a hurry to get back to his red Camaro.

Fish in a barrel, Jack mused as he exited Half-Ass.

HALF-ASS WAS A twenty-four-hour greasy spoon, home to Pell Street regulars and Chinatown truck drivers dropping in for a quick yeen gnow or hom gnow faahn meal deal.

After sunset, most Chinatown families were home for the evening, surrendering the day to family dinner, Hong Kong videotapes, Chinese TV variety shows.

Families cooked their own rice in an electric pot and prepared a wok full of hot stir-fried vegetables, later adding in fast-food sides of sook sik cha siew roast pork, for yook, see yow gai, soy-sauce chicken, from takeout joints like Half-Ass.

Later at night, the local denizens who frequented Half-Ass weren’t so family oriented: Chinese gamblers from the basements, voracious johns from Fat Lily’s or Chao’s cat-houses, see gay drivers, cabbies, Black Dragon gang kids, made members of the Hip Ching tong, and their cronies.

All the seedy, shady creatures of the night, their dirty playtime until dawn.

JACK RETURNED TO Chinatown at midnight, made his way to the corner of Mott and Pell. The area was deserted except for an occasional passerby and what looked like a few gang kids at the far end of the short street.

All the office windows in the corner building were dark, but he noticed the black bulk of a radio car parked outside 36 Pell. There was no driver in the see gay, which made Jack wonder if this could be Bossy’s car. He pulled out a pen and jotted the license number on his wrist anyway.

Farther up the block he could see a few people outside Half-Ass, shuffling and stamping their feet against the cold. They’d probably been gambling in the basement that extended beneath Half-Ass and had come up for air, maybe a change of luck.

Jack knew to go through the doorway adjacent to Half-Ass, into the courtyard behind, and down the short flight of concrete steps to the basement. Sometimes the kitchen da jop gathered outside the back exit of Half-Ass, taking their smoke breaks in the courtyard, tempted themselves by the card games, the flow of gamblers, and the large sums of cash money exchanging hands under their feet.

Jack kept his head down. Half-Ass was half full, its windows foggy as he went past, through the grimy corridor into the cement courtyard.

He stepped down into the basement. He nodded and grunted at an old man seated on a metal folding chair near the door, and that seemed enough to let him slide into the mix. The basement was crowded, and he lit one of Billy’s Marlboros before feigning interest behind one of the chut jeung card games while covertly scanning the room. The usual assortment of restaurant workers off the late shift and gang kids, other losers returning from Atlantic City or Foxwoods with their last-ditch bets.

Mostly men smoking up a cloud of cigarette haze, matching expletives in Toishanese and Cantonese across the half-dozen rectangular tables. Only traditional poker games here—chut jeung, sup som jeun—seven-card and thirteen-card poker. No dew hei pussy mah-jongg games here. Women played mah-jongg.

No Las Vegas–style nights here. No casino games, just a notorious Chinatown Chinese poker joint. The Ghosts were way ahead by comparison, much more innovative than the Hip Chings, offering blackjack and mini-baccarat for the ladies at their gambling joints.

Here on Pell Street, men bet a week’s pay or more on the number of buttons in a fan tan bowl, on a color or a favorite table. Now that’s manly! Legendary players have won restaurants, or lost them. Their houses, their cars, their passports, and Rolex watches.

The gambling basements swallowed everything.

At the rear of the floor, the gang kids who had any money left had pooled their dollars and were betting together, cussing as their collective bao slowly disappeared.

Jack didn’t see anyone his own height, mostly five-eight and under. Excluding the gang kids, nobody looked very suspicious, just another gathering of hard-luck stories, damaged people, and lonely lives.

He dropped ten bucks on top of one of the bet boxes drawn on the brown butcher paper covering the sup som jeung table. He lost that promptly, the dealer sweeping his money off the table with a grin.

He went to another table and peeled off a couple of Lincolns. He hadn’t noticed any obvious left-handers slapping down money or cards on any of the tables. Dropping a Lincoln onto one of the end boxes, he won ten bucks. Pure luck.