Authors: Henry Chang
Tags: #Fiction, #Mystery & Detective, #Police Procedural, #ebook
The long detail in the Chinatown Precinct had exhausted Jack. He was happy to be back on days in the Ninth, the 0-Nine.
The previous day’s reports were loaded up on the computer blotter: A teenage wolf pack of a dozen black and Latino youths had assaulted and robbed a Russian immigrant couple in the Alphabets. They’d smashed the man over the head with a brick, and were attempting to rape the woman when patrol arrived and scattered them. On the outskirts of Chinatown, an Organized Crime Control Bureau detail raided a warehouse and confiscated seventy-five thousand dollars’ worth of bootleg and contraband cigarettes. Fake Camels and Marlboros from China. The Ghost Legion was involved somehow, thought Jack. Earlier, a man stabbed another man in a Chinatown nail salon. Ming Chu, twenty-six, knifed another Asian man and was charged with second-degree attempted murder and first-degree assault. The motive was unclear. In the East Village, a crew of thugs robbed a Korean deli, wounding the owner’s sister. In NoHo, two illegal Chinese nationals were arrested for making high-end purchases with counterfeit credit cards. The two were caught with sixteen bogus credit cards in their possession.
The three Chinese-involved cases had Prosecutor Bang Sing’s name attached to them: he was a Chinese ADA saddling up against Chinese criminals the same way that Jack was pitted against the Chinatown underworld.
The shooting space consisted of eight shallow stalls, each with a small counter that looked out over twenty-five feet toward the target end of the range.
Alex saw a series of paper targets clipped onto cable wire, vibrating to the concussion of multiple volleys and staccato bursts of gunfire. Stepping inside the enclosure, the shooter already had “ears” on, noise-canceling headsets that muffled the continuous explosive gunshots from the stalls, where civilians and professionals blasted away with everything from .22s to .9-millimeters to .45s. A deafening barrage of deadly projectiles.
The smell of cordite and gunshot residue filled the air.
The shooter usually clipped a target to the wire, reeled it out to a desired distance, and donned protective eyewear. Weapons were loaded and reloaded on the small countertop as shooters settled themselves, preparing to fire away.
Alex leveled the Smith & Wesson Ladysmith, taking a breath as she focused on the large body target ten feet away, a threatening dark silhouette. Using a two-handed stance, with her free hand cupped under her gun fist, she felt the fight of the trigger, and squeezed off a one- and a two-shot burst. Paused. Then two more.
Bam! Bambam! Bambam!
And she still had three shots left in the model 317 Airlite, an eight-shot .22-caliber revolver that Jack had recommended. It weighed less than ten ounces on an aluminum alloy frame, had a black rubber grip, and a smooth combat trigger. Eight shots from a revolver was a definite advantage, and the piece fit nicely inside her designer handbag. The high-velocity long-rifle bullets could rip a hole through a phonebook and still take out an eye.
Jack had warned her, “You shouldn’t be capping anybody more than ten feet away. Otherwise, it ceases to be self-defense. And don’t go chasing after them, either, for Crissakes.”
Alex chuckled at the memory, put the gun down, and reeled in the target. She ran her index finger over the little holes in the black-paper torso-shaped target: a single hit on the right shoulder, then two more across the breastplate, grouped closer together. The last two only an inch apart, just under the heart.
The way Jack had taught her: Shoot to kill. Or don’t shoot at all.
The .22-caliber load, even with the high-velocity rounds, had very little kick and was easy to handle. Alex had developed a relaxed natural style, letting loose a volley from different defensive positions: combat conditions. She even felt she could make a torso hit shooting from the hip.
“Yeah, right,” Jack had teased. “A real Annie Oakley.”
She looked over her shoulder as gunshots thundered from the stalls around her, saw Jack on the other side of the Plexiglas window. He was smirking and giving her a thumbs-up.
She flashed him a small wave of her hand.
“Freakin’ too good,” Jack whispered to himself, watching Alex through the big picture window that opened on six of the dark stalls, part of the soundproofed dividing wall that separated the lounge area from the target range. She was wearing a dark outfit—black vest and jeans—which reminded Jack of an avenging angel.
The lounge area consisted of a soda machine, a bathroom, and a long couch where members could sit and wait if the place was fully occupied. There was a stack of gun magazines on a folding table:
Hunting Guide; Sportsman’s
World; Competition Shooting
.
Alex was beginning to shoot instinctively, Jack knew, becoming one with the little lady’s gun that was lightweight but deadly. He knew she could make Swiss cheese out of some punk-ass wilding gang looking to jack some weak Asian woman.
The shooting club was managed by Alvin Lin, a thirtyish ABC—American-born Chinese—who was even more
jook
sing
, empty piece of bamboo, than Jack. He was a real Chinese cowboy.
Alex shot eight cycles of the five-shot sets, and finally banged off the extra three rounds into a two-inch grouping just beneath the target’s abdomen. She loaded the last four bullets into the Ladysmith, keeping seven shots ready but leaving empty the eighth, the firing pin chamber.
“In case you drop it,” Jack had explained, “so it won’t go off.”
She nestled the gun into its case, locked it. Coming out of the shooting area, she took off her “ears” and eyewear, the revolver cooling in the metal box.
“Got done quick, huh?” teased Jack.
“Yeah, I shot the box,” she quipped. “What, you expected me to go to war in there?”
Jack grinned. “No, but I’m glad you got it off your chest.”
“Right. And how much GSR is on my arm right now?”
“C’mon,” Jack said, laughing. “You’re watching way too much
Law and Order
.”
They decided to go to the East Village for sushi and sake, but Jack’s cell phone trilled the moment they left the gun club. Alex caught Jack’s end of the conversation, and knew their plans were about to go awry.
“He asked for me?” questioned Jack, a puzzled look crossing his face.
The Chinatown precinct duty sarge answered, “He said the
Chinese
cop. The one who worked the gang shooting. That would be you.”
“That’s me,” Jack agreed. “I’m on my way.”
Alex saw Jack’s jaw clenching and said, “Well, I’ve got an early morning anyway. So … rain check, okay?”
“Sure, rain check,” Jack answered, his thoughts already pointing his gut downtown.
They caught a cab to Alex’s Chinatown high-rise, Confucius Towers. From there it was a two-block walk to the 0-Five, the Fifth Precinct.
The evening was dark, but not as black as Jack’s mood.
The white, crewcut, uniformed cop met Jack in the detective’s area of the squad room, and turned over a large knife in a sheath. Jack pulled the knife out, impressed by its heft. It was a Taiwanese knockoff, a cross between a Crocodile Dundee and a Bowie blade, several inches short of a machete. A deadly piece of tempered steel.
Jack holstered it and dropped it into a file cabinet, locking it.
“He’s in the room,” said the uniform. “They grabbed him off Delancey Street. He don’t talk English too good.”
Jack smirked at the irony of what he was hearing.
Sitting in the interview room was a beefy-looking Chinese kid, maybe twenty-one but he looked younger. On the table was a Boston Red Sox baseball cap.
“Man, I’m glad to see you,” the kid said when Jack walked in.
“Okay, so you speak English,” challenged Jack. “Why are you pretending?”
“I wasn’t! No disrespect. But the white cop was outta line. I didn’t want to talk to him the way he was playing me.”
“So you spoke to him in
Chinglish
?”
“And I asked for you.”
“You know me?” Jack asked bluntly.
“I’m cousin of the Jung twins,” said the young man.
Jack narrowed his eyes at him, said, “Yeah, and …?”
“You know, they got themselves killed in that shoot-out at Bowery? Near OTB?
Your
case; it was in the papers.”
“Go on,” pushed Jack.
“The cop pulled me over, near the bridge. Said I didn’t signal the lane change, something. He checked my plates. Then he started talking crap about how the Red Sox suck and made me get out of the car. The other cop lifted my jacket off the front seat and saw the knife.”
“What the hell are you doing with that?” pressed Jack.
“I work in a warehouse. We use it on the job.”
Jack poked his finger at the red ball cap, and said, “Boston, huh? What’re you doing down here?”
“I came up for the hundred days.”
“Hundred days?”
“Go to the cemetery, you know, pay respects.
My two cousins
. You’re Chinese. You know, you
understand.
”
Jack remembered: the Jung twins, victims of the brazen shoot-out between factions of Lucky’s Ghosts. The “hundred days” after the burial, when Chinese people visit the deceased, was an ancient tradition.
“Well, they
can
charge you with carrying a concealed weapon,” warned Jack.
“What concealed? It was on the front seat. We keep it out to cut ropes and cartons, for deliveries.”
“The officer says it was in your jacket.”
“No way! I took my jacket off in the car. It was hot and I put it on the seat. It may have been covering the knife but I wouldn’t call it
hidden
.”
Jack shook his head disdainfully.
“No, man, no,” pleaded the kid. “It wasn’t concealed. And I wasn’t carrying it.”
Jack remained stone-faced. “If they press it, you’re looking at a coupla nights in the Tombs. Maybe Rikers.”
The Boston Chinese started pumping his knee, nervous, fearful because the Chinese cop wasn’t helping him.
“Then you’d need to raise bail,” Jack added, “and your Boston shit is going to get screwed by your being busted in New York. At the very least, you’d have a lot of explaining to do back home.”
“Look, help me out, huh?” Desperate now.
“Tell me why I should,” Jack challenged. “Because we’re Chinese?” Raising the ante. “Because what?”
“Because I got something that maybe can help you?”
“Yeah, and what’s that?”
“There’s someone missing from that shoot-out. A punk-ass named Eddie, right?” There was a hopeful tone in his voice.
“How do you know
that
?” asked Jack, raising an eyebrow.
“He’s with the
dailo
’s crew. And no one’s seen him since.”
Jack was quiet a moment. He’d suspected that Eddie Ng had been one of the shooters, but it was all circumstantial.
“So you know where he is?”
“Something like that.”
“Don’t
fuck
with me, boy,” snapped Jack.
“Help me out?”
“Talk,” Jack waited.
“He’s from Seattle.” The kid’s words followed a deep sigh. “My cousin mentioned it last year.” Both of his knees were pumping now.
“Where in Seattle?”
“That’s all I know. Chinatown, maybe.”
“Maybe? There’s a lot of Chinese in Seattle, boy.”
“That’s all I know. Please.”
Jack shook his head in disbelief, and left the kid in the room. The uniformed cop gave Jack the kid’s driver’s license while he sweated it out. Jack took the information and ran it for priors and warrants as he reviewed the OTB shoot-out case file.
The reports had tallied up six dead near OTB; five were confirmed Ghost gangbangers, and the sixth was an old Chinese man who’d happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time and caught himself a cardiac.
The final victim was the Ghost Legion
dailo
himself, Lucky, who might never regain conciousness.
Seattle PD already had Eddie’s juvenile mug shot that Jack had forwarded via the Wanted posters, but if they focused on Eddie’s height of four foot seven, they’d have a better chance of spotting him. There were a lot of short Chinese around, but not too many that short.
Jack decided he’d give Seattle PD a reach-out and a heads-up, see if Eddie turned up in the older West Coast Chinatown.
Priors and Warrants came up negative for the Boston Chinese kid. Jack had already figured the arrest was a “meatball” bust anyway, with an overzealous cop trying to make a weapons-possession rap off a questionable traffic stop, a case that’d probably be tossed by a grand jury, more waste of taxpayer money and time.
Jack went back into the room.
The kid’s eyes were big, scared, hoping against hope.
“First thing,” Jack said. “You can forget about getting the knife back.” He flipped the driver’s license onto the table and the kid sat straight up. “Second,” Jack continued, “Don’t come down here again.” He tossed him his Red Sox cap. “Next time they’ll grab you for ‘driving while Chinese.’ Know what I’m saying?”
The kid jumped up and practically kowtowed to Jack all the way out the door. Jack heard his footsteps bounding down the stairs to freedom.
Putting away the OTB shoot-out case file, Jack decided to give Billy Bow a call.
“Yo, Jacky boy.” Billy Bow’s voice came chuckling out of Jack’s cell phone.
“I need your help—” began Jack.
“Like Batman needs Robin. What else is new?
Shoot
.” Billy snickered at his own cleverness.
“How many Ngs are there in Seattle?”
“Is this a trick question?”
“Serious, man,” said Jack, grinning.
“You sure you don’t want Lees or Wongs? I heard they’re on sale this week.”
“C’mon. Serious.”
“Well, there’s gotta be hundreds, right? Maybe thousands.”
“Yeah, thanks a lot.” Jack sighed.
“Look, I can check with one of the old-timers later,
lo oom
. He belongs to the Eng Association.”
“Let me know, Blood,” Jack said.
“Bet. Anyway, did you hear the joke about Chinese math?”
“Later, Billy,” Jack said abruptly. “Tell me when I see you.”
Inside the Tofu King, Billy was ready with his jokes.
“Check out this Chinese math,” he began.
“Aw, c’mon,” Jack protested.
“Nah, listen.”
Jack rolled his eyes, shook his head, and resigned himself.
“If three Chinamen jump ship with six ounces of China White, and then chase the dragon three times each before delivering the remaining heroin to the tong, how far will they get if they flee by rickshaw, going six miles an hour, before the pursuing hatchetmen catch them and chop them into eighteen pieces for dipping into the product?”
“Where do you get this stuff from?” Jack chuckled. “The rickshaw drivers work for the tong, right?”
“Damn right.” Billy laughed. “They didn’t have a Chinaman’s chance to begin with.”
“So what do you have for me?” reproved Jack.
Billy paused for effect. “Two hundred eighty-eight Ngs in Seattle. That’s including Engs,
with
the ‘E.’”
Jack knew the surname was written and spoken only one way in Chinese. “The old man said that? Two hundred eighty-eight?”
“He said the Seattle Eng Association has about two hundred members.” Billy grinned at Jack’s confusion. “The Seattle local directories, man,” teased Billy. “You can look that shit up on the Internet, you know.”
“Didn’t know you were a computer nerd,” Jack retorted.
“Just surfin’, dude. Plus, there’s no telling how many Engs floating around illegally, know what I’m saying? Add another coupla hundred.”
Jack grimaced at the daunting challenge, a thin lead based on a desperate kid’s bid to stay out of Rikers, and nothing had come back on the Wanteds, not from Seattle or anywhere else.
Seattle PD would have been looking for a wanted likeness based on an old juvie photo. In view of that department’s inefficient and racist past, what were the chances they’d look hard for someone who hadn’t been charged with any crime?
“Watcha expect?” Billy said. “All Chinamen look alike, right? You think white cops are gonna put a big effort behind this?”
Jack frowned at the cynical truth in Billy’s words.
“Shit,” Billy continued, “you’d do better going out there yourself. Pull up a squat in the middle of Chinatown and watch it roll by.”
“Yeah, right,” Jack replied sardonically. “Not a Chinaman’s chance, huh?” He backed out toward the front door, waved, said, “Thanks for the math.”
“Don’t mention it,” said Billy grinning. “And don’t let the door slap your ass on the way out.”