"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."