He ate fried eggs at the Terminal Diner, washed his stubbled face in the men's-room sink. He called Gee Man again. Still no answer.

At night he stayed awake, watching the changing of passengers on the Greyhound, saw the night lights going by at a distance from the highway. He felt safe near the driver, the Ruger nestled in his waistband holster, his cash stash flat against his back.

The air got thin and cool as the bus climbed the pitch-black night toward the mountains. Worse came to worse, sell the Lincoln to Gee Man, make up a sweetheart lease or something. Wire the money out slow and easy.

He bought a throwaway razor kit in Denver, shaved in the station's washroom, rinsed the dead taste from his mouth. When he called Gee Man he got the machine again.

Dewwww, he cursed, fuckit, and hung up.

Daylight came again.

He wasn't too concerned about Gee Man now. It was Los Angeles-and Mona-that was dancing in his mind.

In the desert everything became clear, the air light and transparent over white sand that shouldered up to the highway. The visibility was endless along the mysterious monochromatic landscape.

The bus rolled toward the smog-clouded city, becoming one with the tangle of freeway interchanges, slogging along on swooping ribbons of concrete.

It reminded Johnny of New York City.

Here, three thousand miles away, he gave in to the momentary belief that he was safe from Uncle Four and his mob. They had no pictures of him. What were they going to do? Phone in a description across the country?

Murder

Jack lay in a dead sleep until the phone jangle bolted him, jerked his groggy head off the pillow to hear Sergeant Paddy Murphy's growl.

"Detective Yu!" Paddy barked.

"Yeah, it's me, Sarge." The clock showed a fuzzy high noon.

"We had a full moon last night. Loony tunes. Captain wants ya down quick. You got a hot one on Hester, number four-fourfour. You'll see the uniforms there. Hurry it up!"

Jack dropped the receiver, picked it off the floor, replaced it on its cradle. He rolled his neck and groaned, took five fast and deep tai chi breaths thinking, Chinatown Chinatown Chinatown.

He pulled on his clothes, strapped on his revolver, grabbed his knapsack and before the cold splash of water dried on his face, was out the door.

He arrived at the scene in twelve minutes, the dome on the Fury roof flashing, the siren wailing, as he sped across the Brooklyn Bridge. He arrived before the EMS crew, and the uniforms took him, jogging, up to the third floor.

He caught his breath and saw the victim on the floor, half-in half-out of the side elevator, the doors bumping up against his waist, opening and closing again.

"Shut it down," Jack said to the custodian.

"Sorry, Detective," the uniform said. "Sarge said not to touch anything till you got here."

"It's okay." Jack scanned the gathering of curious office workers. "Any statements?"

"No one saw anything, or heard anything. Typical."

"That so? Typical?'

The patrol officer looked away sheepishly.

"Who found him?" Jack relented.

"The watchman at the door downstairs."

"Bring him up."

Jack shot the roll of film, covering all the angles, then pocketed the plastic camera. He leaned over the short heavyset body, sidestepping the blood pooling around the man's head. There was a gold band on his wedding finger. A diamond ring on his other hand. The face was bloody, looked contorted where it had slammed into the linoleum floor. Jack put his fingers on the man's neck, felt it was still warm, but there was no pulse.

The gray Hong Kong silk suit jacket had fallen open. Jack fished out a wallet and a ring of keys. Turning his back to the elevator, he went through the wallet while pacing to the far wall. He ran his hand along the wall at eye level, then stepped back, reached lower and ran his hand along it again. He found a small hole. He took out his penknife and dug out a section of the sheetrock. The squashed slug was a small caliber. Twenty-two long, maybe a twenty-five automatic. Handgun, he thought, at close range. There were no shell casings in the elevator car.

From the wallet he pulled a driver's license, a credit card. Wah Yee lam, aged sixty. Had an address at Confucius Towers. Uncle Four, he suddenly realized.

There was a lawyer's business card showing an address in the building. Another card for a limo service. He made a mental log of the items.

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.