Red Jade (3 page)

“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?”

“Karaoke?” puzzled Billy. “Same buncha kids hanging out in front all the time. Noisy as hell. Leave their garbage all over the fuckin’ street. And you know I can’t sing worth a shit.”

Jack laughed, letting Billy run on.

“So I only been down there once or twice. But five bucks for a beer and ten dollars for a
lo mein
? Fuhgeddaboudit. Rip-off. But then I heard the Ghosts are dealing bags and pills out of there. Probably you-know-what-else, too.”

Jack understood that to mean heroin, China White. “What kind of crowd?” he asked, thinking of May Lon Fong.

“They’re like a young Hong Kong crowd,” Billy pondered, “but they got snakehead
nui
, smuggled girls, hustling off the big beers, brandy, and bar food. Probably got tong cash backing the place.”

The Ghosts, thought Jack. He considered paying a visit during the late hours but knew the Ghosts would make him right away, even if he played his way in with Alexandra on his arm. Two romantics out for a singsong.

“Ghosts,” sneered Billy. “Fuhgeddaboudit. The girls don’t last long there before getting dirty.”

Exactly the kind of innuendo that the victims’ families didn’t want, thought Jack.

Billy was another bad influence, another brick in Jack’s protective wall around his feelings, fortifying his skeptical view of relationships, pushing him to keeping Alex at a distance.

“That’s how bitches are,” Billy complained. “They fuck around when they think they can get over.”

Billy, the bitter divorcé, was protective of his heart, but was a weekly regular at Angelina Chao’s pussy palace, where only matters of his cock were involved.

“Why?” Billy asked. “Somebody kill somebody with their sorry-ass singing?”

“Nah.” Jack laughed. “I just need some background for the paperwork.”

Billy lit up a cigarette. “This kid, Jing Zhang, moonlights down there, after slopping beans here.”

“I might need to speak to him,” said Jack.

“Too early. He’s probably splitting some young Fukienese flower right about now.” He checked his beat-up Swatch watch. “Come back after ten.”

“Thanks,” Jack offered as they pounded fists.

“Later.”

Jack left the Tofu King, swinging his little red plastic bag of Chinese desserts, and went toward Division Street, a freezing winter wind tunnel. He lowered his head to the steady, relentless wind, until he passed beneath the Manhattan Bridge onto Allen, leading out past the Chrystie Street park where the local needleheads once ruled, sharing shots and hatching up their junkie schemes of the day.

The Loisaida side streets blended into NoHo, until he came to a big yellow banner over a storefront that used to be a bodega. The yellow banner proclaimed
ASIAN AMERICAN
JUSTICE ADVOCACY
, or AJA, pronounced Asia.

AJA had begun as a grassroots activist organization staffed by young lawyers and law students fighting for positive change, paying back the community with pro bono time. The gritty feeling of the neighborhood made him wonder if Alexandra had visited the pistol range he’d suggested. He’d helped her to get a pistol permit when she’d been spooked by phone threats the AJA had received for aiding runaways smuggled in by the snakeheads. Alex had purchased a .22-caliber revolver, a Smith & Wesson Ladysmith.

Pausing at the door, Jack viewed the storefront operation that was a jumble of used office furniture and donated equipment. It was too easy to see inside, and because of AJA’s proximity to the avenues of Alphabet City, there were groups of homeless men loitering nearby who appeared sinister and threatening.

There was no one at the reception desk. He saw Alex through the small pane of glass in the wood door. She was in her late twenties but could still pass for an undergrad. She was sitting and watching some news footage on the little color TV by her desk.

Alex saw Jack enter, nodded, and resumed watching the TV. He knew it was a tape when she rewound the images back across the screen before turning off the set. Jack remembered that the same crime scenes and follow-up footage had been shown by the media extensively during the week.

Four days earlier there’d been a shooting in Queens: an officer had responded to a call and encountered a teenager playing with a pellet gun. In the ensuing struggle, the teenager was shot in the back of the head and died.

The Chinese teenager was an honor student and the officer was a second-year rookie. The case had taken an abrupt turn when the report from the Medical Examiner’s office concluded that the path of the fatal police bullet didn’t support the NYPD claim that it was an accidental shooting.

Internal Affairs was all over the scenario now, as was the Queens DA’s office.

The media was having a field day with it.

“The funeral’s today,” Alex said quietly, “but one of the uncles is screaming ‘wrongful death.’”

Jack knew that to mean a lawsuit was imminent but remained quiet because he’d seen the controversy coming. Wrongful police actions made him feel awkward, but he knew it was inevitable; on a force of thirty thousand men and women, there was bound to be some unfortunate incidents. It wasn’t the first time Alex had taken the Chinese side against the NYPD, and although she didn’t direct any of her contempt for bad cops toward Jack personally, he still caught her negative thoughts directed at his gun and shield.

“And I can’t do it,” Alex added.

Jack gave her a puzzled look.

“I’ve got two cases already,” she continued. “Plus I’ll be in Seattle during the hearings.”

“Seattle?” asked Jack.

“The CADS are invited to ORCA’s annual awards gala,” Alex said distractedly.

CADS was the Chinese-American Defense Squad, Alex’s clever little acronym for her group of eight Chinese lawyers, a judge, and a half-dozen paralegal misfits who nevertheless knew how to make the system sing. They’d taken on some police brutality beefs and a few controversial discrimination cases, and had won convincingly.

ORCA was the Organization for Rights of Chinese-Americans, a civil-rights organization that had eighty-eight chapters nationwide. They’d supported legal actions following the much-publicized “mistaken identity” murder of a young Chinese man in 1982 in Detroit.

“Death by cop,” said Alex, frowning. “They kill you for pulling out a wallet. Or a cell phone, or a
hairbrush.
Everything looks like a gun.”

“From what I’m hearing, it was a good shoot,” Jack reluctantly offered.

“
Good?
” Her eyes narrowed. “He shot the kid in the head while restraining him. How can that be good?”

“You know what I mean,” Jack said evenly. “They say the arrest was textbook, just—”

“Only the ‘gun’ didn’t follow the textbook, huh?” She looked away.

Jack shrugged. This was an argument he didn’t want any part of.

“He was a straight-A kid, Jack,” said Alex, unrelenting, “the kind of kid every parent wishes their child could be.” She sighed, and there was an awkward silence between them.

He’d chosen a bad time to visit but was glad he was able to bring something sweet into Alex’s frustrating and melancholy morning. He surprised her by setting the bag of Tofu King desserts on her desk, and saw her face brighten momentarily.

“I’m not sure how to take this,” she said, opening one of the plastic containers of
bok tong go
.

“How’s that?” puzzled Jack.

“Well, the only time you come out here,” she said as she bit into one of the spongy white sweets, “is when something bad brings you to Chinatown.”

Jack took a deep breath. He was silent a moment while the images of a dead Chinese couple did a jump cut in his mind.

“What is it this time?” Alex asked, her big eyes cautiously looking up at him.

Abruptly, Jack asked, “What do you think about postpartum depression?”

“Excuse me?” she said as she leaned back in her chair.

“I mean here, in Chinatown,” Jack explained. “Among Chinese-speaking immigrants? Do they believe in it? Or get treatment for it?”

Alex realized Jack wasn’t kidding. “Well, the younger generation knows about it. The health clinic distributes brochures in Chinese. And they have outreach programs.”

“And the older generation?” He watched her finish off the sweet. “Do they dismiss it? Like it’s a myth?”

Alex leaned forward and folded her arms across the top of her desk. Jack glanced away to avoid staring at the soft curves of her cleavage.

“The old folks have a traditional spin on it,” she said. “They use herbs and soups. Certain foods to rebalance the mother’s body, knowing how the body and mind are linked.”

“Right,” Jack realized. “An unbalanced mind explains why a mother might hurt her own children.”

Alex studied Jack’s face before asking, “You’re here on behalf of dead children again?”

“No,” he answered. “Just looking for some clarity….” He wanted to change the subject. “So, you ever make it down to the pistol range?”

The thought of guns sobered her, brought her back to the realities of crime on these Lower East Side streets.

“Twice,” she answered.

“How’d it go?”

“I’m a regular Annie Oakley now, okay?”

“Yeah, right.” Jack grinned.

Her desk phone rang and Jack waved good-bye to her as she took the call. He was thinking about the big police captain, the Chinese prosecutor Bang Sing, and the disposable camera in his pocket as he left the storefront.

When he got back to Chinatown, Ah Fook’s Thirty-Minute Photo had just opened. Jack gave the camera to Fook junior, who would print the film before processing the other orders of the morning. Jack would pick it up later, after checking in with Billy Bow.

Law and Order

ADA Bang Sing reminded Jack of a younger Chow Yun-Fat, Hong Kong’s John Wayne. He wore a black coat over a black suit and had a well-traveled, cosmopolitan air about him. Captain Marino leaned back in his big chair and let him talk.

“The judge set bail at a million dollars,” Sing said in an urbane voice, “because of the flight risk. But he’s really interested in seeing who’s going to step up for Johnny.” Sing paused for effect. “So far, no takers.”

Jack and Marino traded glances and the ADA continued, “So far there’s no action on his remand. He’s cooling his ass at Rikers and there’s no requirement of a ‘speedy trial’ in a murder case.” Again, he paused for effect. “Sheldon Littman’s the lawyer for Johnny, and he waived the grand jury. They’re claiming they need time for discovery as to who this woman of interest is, because she turns up in your testimony.”

Again Jack flashed back to the running shoot-out across the San Francisco Chinatown rooftop, and the petite woman with short hair who was squeezing off .25-caliber slugs at him.

“Meanwhile,” Sing continued, “Johnny’s had visitors. Chinese men who claim to be Hong Kong affiliates of Littman’s. They said Johnny’s testimony needs a better translation than that of a regular court appointee, because of his limited English. And Littman’s trying to get Johnny moved to softer digs. Maybe an empty federal squat.”

Jack remembered Mona’s tape-recorded words, implicating Johnny.

“So here’s the deal,” Sing said as if in a summation. “When we go to trial, the existence of this woman is going to create doubt about Johnny being the lone shooter. They’re going to work
you
over on cross-examination. And we need to limit the damage.”

“Bullshit,” Jack said quietly.

“Minimum, we still get him for conspiracy to commit murder, aiding and abetting a homicide. Littman’s going to paint Johnny as a hapless fuckhead who fell for this missing woman. And then got suckered.” Another pause. “With
your
testimony, there’s enough he can play on to support that.”

“More bullshit,” said Jack with a sneer.

“There’s a big chill on right now,” Sing advised. “But I’ll keep you posted.”

“Thanks.” Jack smiled sardonically.

After the ADA left, Jack pulled the Wanted posters from the open case files. A file that Jack had labeled
EDDIE NG/
SHORTY
contained a juvenile offender mugshot of Keung “Eddie” Ng, who Jack believed was involved in the Ghost Legion OTB shoot-out that had left six dead, and Lucky in a coma. The photo was ten years old; a baby-faced kid who’d probably looked different now.

He took out a Wanted poster bearing the Shirley Yip image from Mona’s file and pocketed both. He would visit Billy Bow and the Fuk kid. After, Jack thought, he’d look for Ah Por, the old wise woman he knew, to see if she had any clues for him. At the Tofu King, the Fuk kid, Jing Zhang, recognized the karaoke photo of May Lon Fong that Jack had taken from her wallet. Zhang was leery about Jack the Chinese cop but Billy said, “It’s okay, JZee, he’s
good
police.”

Zhang relaxed, saying in broken Cantonese, “She kept to herself. She was old for that crowd.”

“Did she seem happy?” Jack asked. “Or was someone bothering her?”

Zhang frowned and shrugged his shoulders at the word “happy.” “The manager”—he glanced at Billy—“he’s a Ghost. He had his pick of the women. And there were the gang girls, always flirting with him.” He paused, scanned the store floor nervously. “But I never saw anything between him and her. Like I said, she was kind of old for him.”

“What time did she get off work?” Jack continued.

“Four thirty, mostly.”

“In the morning.”

“That’s right.”

“And she closed the club?”

Jing chortled. “The Ghosts close the club. They let her out a few minutes before they locked the gates.”

A dangerous time of night, thought Jack. But at least she lived nearby. Two blocks from Doyers Street. The few minutes it’d take for her to get home would be the last moments she’d have had to herself before encountering her ex-husband.

“What else?” Jack asked.

“That’s
it
. I’m in the kitchen most of the time.”

Jack dismissed the kid to his work, and Billy accompanied him to the back area, where they started slopping the beans.

After he left the Tofu King, Jack headed for the Senior Citizen Center, on a hunch that the old wise woman, Ah Por, would be there. Normally, Ah Por kept company with the groups of elderly fortune-telling women who gathered in Columbus Park, but the freezing weather prohibited that now. More than likely she’d be at the center, finishing off her bowl of congee, served free to senior citizens. Jack remembered her from the times Pa had brought him to visit the old woman, with her red book and cup of sticks, seeking lucky words, or numbers, or good news. This was after Ma died. Jack never forgot. He’d been a young child, and didn’t remember much of his mother.

More recently, Ah Por’s readings provided accurate if oblique clues for Jack, helping in his investigations. He found her in the back of the lunchroom, in a sea of old heads, listening to the Chung Wah Chinese Broadcasting’s radio program that was being played over the PA system.

“Ah Por,” Jack said, just loud enough to catch her ear, to make her glance up at him, a glint of recognition in her old eyes. He didn’t see any of her tools of divination but he knew she also applied “face reading” to everyday items, using them to channel with an eerie clairvoyant’s touch.

“Ah Por,” Jack repeated, handing her the photo of May Lon Fong and the expired driver’s license of Harry Gong. He pressed a folded five-dollar bill into her rheumatic hand, smiled, and bowed his head.

Ah Por ran a thumb over the smiling face of the woman in the photograph, over the karaoke microphone she held. She repeated the moves over the man’s face on the driver’s license. She pocketed the money and closed her eyes.

Jack remembered that she spoke softly, and leaned in closer.

“She is a snake.”

Huh? thought Jack.

“And he is a pig,” she added, her eyes snapping open. Dementia? considered Jack.

“They are incompatible. Better is the Snake with an Ox, or a Rooster.”

Jack realized she was referring to the animals in the Chinese zodiac.

“She is Fire, and he is Water,” Ah Por continued. “Worlds apart.” She paused, and shook her head. “He is still in love with her. But she is full with bitterness.”

Ah Por handed Jack back the photo and license.

“Their union can come to no good end.”

“Thank you,” Jack said, handing her the two posters from the open case files, slipping another five into her hand. She pocketed the money and held the Wanted posters apart, one in each hand. She swept her fingers across each of the faces, slowly rolling her head.

Jack leaned closer.

Lifting up the poster of Eddie Ng, Ah Por said, “
Yuh
,” meaning rain, followed by, “
Lo mok
,” Cantonese slang for
Negro
.

Jack noted Ah Por’s responses, although he continued to puzzle over their meaning.

From the second poster, the magazine photo likeness of Mona, Ah Por said
yuh
again. Is she confused? wondered Jack. She gave him a faraway look, adding, “
Seui
,” water.

“Water over water,” she concluded, handing him back the posters.

Jack thanked her again, wondering if it was all mystical mumbo-jumbo meant to torment him, another Chinatown curse.

Ah Por cackled, turned, and walked away, patting her money pocket, her signal to Jack that the session was over. He watched her disappear into the crowd of ancient folks milling about, their voices blending together amidst the sounds of Chinese radio.

The smell of congee had made him think of the Wong Sing Restaurant, where Harry Gong had worked. Jack decided to go along Columbus Park. He passed the string of Chinese funeral parlors that lined the street opposite the playgrounds and ballfields of the park side: the Chao Funeral House, the Wah Fook Parlor, the Sun Wing Parlor, the Wing Ching Parlor. Jack saw the large white tickets prominently posted on the glass doors of the parlor’s entrances; each ticket bore a Chinese ink-brushed name, each black on white ticket representing a deceased person.

There were eight tickets at the Wah Fook. Eight also at the Sun Wing. The Chao had posted six, and the Wing Ching, five. The funeral drivers would work double shifts this week.

Twenty-seven bodies leaving Mulberry Street, heading toward everlasting peace.

January and February were the cruelest months, Jack thought, with the deadly flu season and the subzero cold picking off the elderly and the infirm. At least two dozen deaths a week during these winter months. And they’d be receiving two more bodies quick enough, Jack knew, as soon as the Medical Examiner was done with May Lon Fong and Harry Gong.

Jack cut left to Mosco Street, then left again to Pell, and saw the place he sought a short distance up the street. The Wong Sing Restaurant featured home-style Cantonese dishes, with a side wall of quickie takeout:
ningjouh
, or
haang
gaai
, “food walking” containers of chopped chicken, duck, or roast pork over rice, topped with a fried egg. Two countermen worked a range top where soup noodles cooked, and plated the various combinations.

There were eight small tables that could be arranged together. No tablecloths. Three waiters loitered around a shelf station filled with glasses and pots of tea. It was early enough for Jack to be their first customer, but this was a late breakfast for him. He ordered
pei don jook
, thousand-year-egg congee, with a
yow jow gwai
, fried cruller, that made for a hot, slurpy, and filling meal.

One of the waiters brought him a steaming glass of brown tea.

Jack drafted notes for the reports that he knew Captain Marino would ask for, then he observed the waiters between spoonfuls of
jook
. He thought about Harry Gong and his days as a waiter here.

Typically, Chinatown waiters worked a ten- to twelve-hour day, five, sometimes six days a week. The bulk of their take-home pay consisted of tips, which everyone underreported. The Wong Sing was a small restaurant, and no one here was making enormous tips like the waiters in the large banquet-style restaurants. The full-time waiters could take off an hour or two between the lunch and dinner shifts, between 3:30 and 5:30
PM
. Those who lived close enough could do their errands, spend time with their families, or make a quick run to OTB. The part-time waiters covered the full shift and helped the kitchen staff prepare vegetables during the dead hours.

The Wong Sing waiters laughed among themselves at an inside joke, and Jack understood their camaraderie. They’d spend more time here with their coworkers, their “brothers,” than they did with their loved ones. Family life
had
to suffer.

Jack imagined Harry Gong going home to an unhappy wife after twelve hours of waiting tables. He also imagined an exasperated May Lon, after an exhausting day caring for two children, facing a dead-tired
lo gung
, husband, who was deaf to her frustrations.

Jack knew that the demands of work and of parenting often broke families apart. None of the negative kharma he felt reflected well on relationships, fortifying Jack’s cynicism.

Collecting his notes, Jack remembered that he needed to see Chinese newspaper editor Vincent Chin, and finished his congee.

He left an extra dollar tip on the way out.

The
United National
was located on White Street, hidden behind the Tombs, a city detention facility, and the rundown building of the Men’s Mission. Vincent Chin managed the operation from its renovated storefront inside a converted warehouse building.

The newspaper had a staff of twenty: pressmen, reporters, and editors. They used freelance photographers and downloaded free graphics. The copy was typeset by layout men who inserted the tiny metal Chinese characters into the press forms by hand.

The
United National
had been Pa’s favorite, his hometown newspaper. Its editor had assisted Jack on previous cases in Chinatown by divulging hearsay details, loose street talk, and calls from anonymous tipsters: details that were inadmissible in court, unverifiable, and unprintable in the paper.

Vincent was sipping from a steamy take-out cup of
nai cha
tea when Jack walked into his little office. Jack proceeded to provide Vincent with the particulars of the May Lon Fong and Harry Gong murder-suicide case, sticking to the facts, leaving out the speculation.

Jack was happy to lay out the straight scoop for Vincent, knowing he would write the true story, and that the other Chinese dailies would have to follow suit if they wanted timely coverage. When Jack finished, he said, “But you know the deal. Don’t print it until the department okays it. You could probably add it late to tomorrow’s issue.”

Vincent nodded in agreement and said, “Call me,” smiling his Chinese Chesire-cat smile as Jack left his office.

Jack picked up his crime scene snapshots from Ah Fook’s and brought them back to the station house. He spread them across the desk and they brought back the scene. Dead hands together, in lifeless passage, the expressions on the faces of the deceased recalling the enormity of the killings, the color snapshots freezing the agony of their tragedy.

Jack stayed away from the emotional edge of it, setting out only the facts in his paperwork. He felt like a drink, but before he realized it, it was mid-afternoon. He left the paperwork on the captain’s desk, a neat overview awaiting only the ME and CSU reports. Included in the file were his quickie snapshots.

He came back to the squad room, where his attention wandered to the array of items he’d shown to Ah Por, still puzzling over the clues she’d given him.

Rain?

Water over water?

Lo mok?

They were hidden explanations, cloaked in yellow witchcraft and Taoist mysticism.

Mona. He remembered her voice, her words spoken in flight, accusing limo driver Johnny Wong of murdering Uncle Four. Mona. The fat man’s mistress, now a shadow in the wind.