The Hip things posted a fifty-thousand-dollar reward for information.

Jack tossed through the newspapers, knew he had to go beyond the machinations of the press, find what wasn't being written, neighborhood gossip and speculation not fit for print. He wanted unsubstantiated chatter from old women, the words of whores, of shiftless men in smoky coffee shops. The backstreets led him toward White Street, where he flipped the business card, and called Vincent Chin.

Chinatown's oldest newspaper, the United National, was located on White Street, nestled down behind the Tombs Detention Facility and the Federal buildings across from the Men's Mission.

The paper operated out of a renovated storefront in a building that was once a warehouse, a five-story brickfaced structure with ornate iron columns framing fire-escapes that jagged across the front exposure.

The National had a staff of twenty that included pressmen, reporters, editors, photographers, and managers. Compared to the other major Chinese dailies, it couldn't claim the highest circulation, or the lowest newsstand price. In fact, the National was the only paper without a color section, the only Chinese newspaper that still typeset by hand the thousand Chinese characters it needed to go to print. They had special typewriters for the different fonts, other machines for headlines and captions.

The United National sold for forty cents a copy and appeared on the newsstands every day but Sunday.

The Nationalwas Chinatown's hometown paper.

It had been Pa's favorite, his only newspaper.

Clue

Vincent Chin said in bilingual-accented English, "What we're not writing is that Big Uncle had a mistress, that the killing was a Hakka drug deal that got twisted somehow. It's hearsay. We can't prove it, we can't print it."

Jack kept fishing. "Other enemies? A double cross?"

"Some people suspect the Ghosts, others say the Dragons, or the Fuk Ching. It's Chinatown fantasy as far as I'm concerned."

"What about the mistress?"

"It's gossip. Someone spotted her in a gambling house. But no one's come forward with a picture, an address, or a body."

"If you had a mistress, wouldn't you keep it hushed up?"

"Yes, but it's Chinatown. You can't shut down loose talk. That's all it is."

"How'd you hear?"

"People call up. You can't imagine the calls we got."

"That's why I'm here." Jack checked his watch, almost nine p.m. "Was it a man who called, or a woman?"

"A man," Vincent said. "Does it matter?"

"I don't know." Jack left his cop card on the typewriter. "But if there's anything else you can think of…"

"I'll call you, or Alex."

"Perfect. Thanks for your time," Jack said, and shook Chin's hand.

Outside, Jack took a deep swallow of the cool night air and trailed the backstreets of Chinatown, letting murder and motive tumble around in his head. When no answers fell out, he took a long look at the basements running down Mott Street under colored neon lights, and remembered Tat "Lucky" Louie.

He nursed two cups of coffee at the Me Lee Snack shop, eavesdropping on Hip Ching gossip: old men's chatter about a fight at a karaoke club. Hong Kong bitch was the last phrase he picked out of the thick Toishan accents.

Then he returned to Pa's apartment and ate monk's vegetarian jaai, studied the pictures of the dead man, and waited for midnight to drop.

Number Nine Hole

The room was a hazy brightly lit basement, thick with the smell of whiskey, coffee, and cigarettes. They were two-fifty, say three hundred people crammed together, Chinese men shoulder-toshoulder, three deep at the gaming tables. Dragon Ladies serving XO and coffee to the high rollers.

Jack stepped into this eclectic mix of waiters, businessmen, hoodlums, cowboys, and street-gang kids. He saw how the younger men seemed to group together, how the Ghostboys had a certain swagger here, the throng parting for their every move from table to table. No doubt who this place answered to. The anxious crowd played mahjong, fan tan, paigozu, thirteen-card poker, betting on fighting fish every half hour. Eight tables were working hard, especially at consuming the whiskey they were spreading around. Jack played the tables along the fringe, leading to the far back of the long room. There was a door there. The little white fan-tan buttons weren't turning up right; it cost Jack a tenspot to watch that door. They all shifted, now betting at the thirteen-card table, almost at the far end. Another ten-spot rode his hand against the House. He saw some of the young guns exit through the doorway which led to a back room and a connecting courtyard. Jack's cards won heads and tails, suddenly upping him twenty bucks. He picked up his money and moved smoothly toward the doorway.

A procession of street kids cut him off. He was letting them drift by when he felt the bump, the heft, of gun-barrel metal jammed into his side, just below the ribs. "Move," the voice said. Before he could turn he was swept up by a crew of Ghost Legion darkshirts, pushed into the back room, where another gun pressed into his temple. He was turned around, slowly, arms stretched sidewise. He felt hands yank the Colt Special from his waist, brought his eyes to bear on a familiar face, fuller now and jowly, with a thickset body, leaning to one side. Around him hate was beaming from Ghost faces, just itching for trouble.

Jack felt the heavy metal slide away from his temple, saw the man step back, a disgusted look on his face. The man reached across Jack's neck and lifted the chain with the detective's badge dangling from it.

"Tat Louie," Jack said.

Lucky let the chain run across his fingers before he balled up his fist and yanked the badge from Jack's neck.

"You gotta lotta balls coming to squeeze me," he said. "That badge ain't shit down here."

"If I wanted to squeeze you I wouldn't have come alone."

"Hey, I'm pissing, I'm so scared," Lucky hissed. "What the fuck you want coming down here?"

"I need help, Tat."

"You need help, call nine-one-one," he cracked. The Ghosts howled.

"That's funny, Tat. Just like it's funny how somebody whacked Uncle Four and nobody knows nothing."

Lucky almost smiled. "Don't worry about it, Jacky boy; you know, it's Chinatown."

Jack straightened. "I know eight months ago you made peace with the Black Dragons. Uncle Four set it up and put his name on it."

The Ghosts spread back, giving them some room.

"Yeah, so you know it wasn't us," Lucky said, holstering the heavy Python revolver.

"Maybe there was a double cross." Jack grinned.

"Maybe you should go fuck yourself," Lucky said, lighting up a cigarette. He blew smoke into Jack's face.

"It wasn't random, wasn't a robbery. More like a pro j ob,"Jack said through the haze. "Was it the White Tigers? Born to Kill, the Fuk Ching?" Jack hesitated.

"Yeah, it was alla them, especially them little Fuk Chow pricks."

"Come on, Tat, let's deal. I know you got problems."

"Do I look worried?" He blew more smoke at Jack.

"You should be. The Fuks and the Namese boys been chopping you up."

Lucky chortled, took a drag on the cigarette. "You crack me tip," he said, the others sneering behind him.

"You gave up Market Street," Jack pressed.

"What the fuck you smoking, man?"