The old men could have saved Jack some time by continuing to dummy up. Instead, they offered up the Fuk Chou: Fukienese, newcomers, outsiders, troublemakers, claiming they were robbing Association member businesses at the outer edge of Chinatown. Uncle Four had issued warnings to them but had received only mocking derision in return. Ho daai dom, ballsy, those Fuk Ching kai dais, shitheads.

Jack had the uneasy feeling that he was being manipulated, but he thanked the old men, playing them the way they played him, the chaai lo-cop. They each shook his hand on the way out. Patted him on the back. Wished him good fortune. Outside the double doors, on the street, Jack smelled kitchen aromas venting into the sunset air, the restaurants firing up their woks for the dinner crush. He felt a gnawing hunger, but forced himself to isolate probable motives: money, or revenge. Or both. Forty-eight hours had passed, the trail was getting cold. He had the feeling that the killer had already bounced, and the only keys around weren't opening up any new doors.

Fuks

Carved with broad strokes into the black wooden board and gilded over with gold leaf, the Chinese characters announced Fuk Chou Village Benevolent Association. Beneath the sign the double door opened into a small office with a large window, looking out over East Broadway where it intersected with Pike below, Essex at the far corner.

The Chinese man behind the metal desk evaded Jack's questions, occasionally glancing at the video security monitor that focused on the door and the street below. The man was about sixty, balding, with an officious and gracious manner that began to sour the more Jack talked.

"We know," Jack said, "you run a gambling operation downstairs, in the back."

"Then you know," the man answered, "we paid this month already. What did you think, because you're Chinese you get an extra share?"

"Look, Uncle, a bigshot was murdered. Some voices say the Fuk Ching are responsible."

"You chaai lo are all the same, running dogs trying to squeeze more juice from hard-working brothers."

The words grated on Jack, made him hot under the collar. "I can subpoena your members, your records," he threatened.

The man grinned. "There is nothing to see, no one to speak to. We have nothing to hide."

Jack kept his poker face on.

"I can shut down the Twenty-Eight," he said.

The man whitened, glared at him.

"I see now, the Ghost Legion pays your salary."

Jack leaned in, said in a hard whisper, "Be careful, old man, your words may hang you one day."

The man looked out the window.

"First you send your punks to rob us, then comes the cop to finish it."

Jack's eyes widened. "There was no robbery report."

"Report what? To bring more dogs running?"

Jack's look devoured the man, but he said nothing. There was a long silence between them, then Jack pushed out of his chair and brushed back the side of his jacket, hand on his hip, exposing the Colt in the holster there.

A look of fear crossed the man's face.

Jack grinned, wagged a finger at him, said, "You have a sharp tongue for an old man. Careful you don't cut yourself," He turned and left the office, quick-stepped down the stairs.

If it wasn't a Fuk Ching execution, he was thinking, then it had to involve a double cross.

Clarity

Jack sank into his chair in the squad room, sliding the backs of his fingers across the hard stubble of his chin while contemplating the photographs from the Thirty Minute Photo. He'd started a new file under the heading WAH YEE TAM/Uncle Four, and was attaching the pictures when the phone rang.

"Fifth Squad," he answered. "Detective Yu."

It was the Medical Examiner.

"Small caliber," the M.E. said, "probably a twenty-five. From one to two feet, we got powder marks. The slug entered left back of the head, went through bones in the cranium. There's a piece in the frontal lobe just inside the forehead. That's the one that killed him. There's another entry wound further toward the center of the head that exited the top of the skull. Shot as he was falling forward."

There was a pause before he continued.

"The killer's probably right-handed, short, and the victim was dead before he hit the ground. I call it about eleven fifty-five a.m."

Not your average hitman's caliber of choice, thought Jack. Threeeighty, nine-millimeter, he could see. The twenty-two, the twentyfive, was a lady's round, made for those little pistols that looked like cigarette lighters, the ones with plastic pearl handles, toylike, plated gold or chrome.

The M.E. hung up andJack made the entries in the file, think ing, A big shot got whacked just before noon on a working holiday, a Saturday in Chinatown. Offices in the building open but nobody heard anything. Were they just being Chinese? Or did the shooter have a silencer? Empty elevator. No witnesses.

The setup was too good, Jack decided. Someone had gotten real close, someone the victim knew.

Payback

The item appeared in the late edition of the Daily News, a two-inch column in the Metro Section, sandwiched between a photo of an auto accident and a piece on condoms in schools. The headline ran "Man Shot in Chinatown" under which it read:

A man believed to be the undersecretary of the Hip Ching Benevolent and Labor Association, a Chinatown tong, was fatally shot near his lawyer's office yesterday, police said. Wah Yee Tam, 60, was found shot in the head execution style en route to his lawyer's office at 444 Hester Street at about noon. Police have no suspects and could not comment on motive, but they voiced the fear that the shooting signals a resumption of local gang warfare. Anyone with information is urged to call (212) 334-0711. All calls will be kept confidential.

In The Wind

The Yellow Cab had jerked to a stop.

Mona kicked out of the side door onto the curb, hurried toward the rush of commuters. She was a shapeless form, her head wrapped by the Hermes scarf, eyes hidden behind the Vuarnets, a black garment bag slung over her shoulder, as she stepped onto the escalator, plunging her down into the sea of heads. Inside, Penn Station was a blur of video digital displays, flashing yellow lights, red uniforms hunkered down in glass bunkers designated TICKETS, RESERVATIONS, DEPARTURES.

She left the baggy brown Chinese jacket she'd worn in the ladies' room, emerged in a black leather blazer, the scarf tied around her neck. All in black now.

The rental locker opened with a snap of the key, and she pulled out a hard-molded Samsonite Rollmaster, black with steel hardware, pulling it behind her as she drifted into the surging merging crowds, moved along by the blaring loudspeakers. She checked her watch as she went, weaving through the other travelers onto the platform, beneath the cool fluorescent lights, past the silvery metallic trains, past the throbbing engines.

Her private accommodations were on a sleek SuperLiner, the Broadway Limited, in a deluxe bedroom sleeper compartment that had its own shower and toilet, and an extra bed folded into the wall.

The trainman took her ticket, punched it, noticed her cherry lipstick and fingernails. He smiled, nodded, went his way down the platform. She stepped up into the Slumber Coach room, hung the garment bag and took the Vuarnets off. Closing her eyes a moment, she took a deep breath. Then again.

She locked the door, sat on the fold-down bed and removed a bottle of XO from the Rollmaster. She took a swallow to calm herself, lit up a Slims, opened the window.