Rugged terrain streaked by, and she could see great lakes far to the north, imagined the Chinese gold coast of Toronto there, considered the possibilities. Seven Chinatowns, newer and cleaner than New York, but lots of Hong Kong Chinese in each. Hip Chings, probably. She watched until the sun began to set behind the mountains. There was no appetite in her stomach and she knew she had to avoid the other passengers.

By nightfall the train had descended into Pittsburgh, then raced west across Ohio and Indiana. She fell asleep in her clothes on the narrow bed, snuggled in beside the knapsack, and awoke fitfully with the first light that filtered in through the blinds.

She brushed her teeth, combed her hair, straightened her clothes. She felt excited and weary at the same time. Coffee and sweet bread came from the dining car. She added XO, finished it off with a chain of cigarettes.

She could keep on the run, she knew, and even be successful in eluding the police, whose energy and resources would dim after a week or so. But Golo would only be satisfied with the return of the gold and diamonds, or if he had a body with which to account to his superiors for the losses. Golo, she knew, would be harder to evade. Johnny was her wild card, in case Golo got too close. She consulted her jade piece, which suddenly felt cool to her touch.

Beware, it said, rain follows thunder.

Move on.

Chicago was a layover where she ducked the passenger lounge in the terminal, keeping the Rollmaster close. Passing the outskirts of Chinatown, she found Wentworth Street, came upon a shopping mall where she filled herself with jook congee and jow gwai, fried bread. On Archer Boulevard she bought melon cakes from a Chinese bakery. She searched along Canal Street, combed the shops along Twenty-Fourth. At the Oriental Gift Shop she found a Chinese box of dark mahogany, which had the symbolic Double Happiness etched in brass on top, a polished wood rectangle with ornate hinges and a sliding drawer. The small gold stick-on label underneath read "Made in China."

She paid for it with cash.

The next train, the California Zephyr, god of the west wind, would carry her the rest of the way. There were Chinese families aboard; she avoided them.

The Superliner crossed the Mississippi, passed the vast bulk and sprawl of prairie lands, tilled and planted with grains, soils of black and red loess. From her window the sky was so big she felt no one would ever catch her.

It was midnight when they arrived in Omaha.

Thirty-six hours out of the Big Uncle's power now, only two things worried her and both were men. Golo would surely come after her, backed by the Hip Chings on both coasts. Johnny would want to keep running, jump the country. Keep him calm, under control, she thought. She still needed him, if only for the extra cover he might provide.

The Zephyr surged westward, into the Rockies, through coniferous forests of Ponderosa pine, fir and spruce, sailing through the Divide, passing river canyons and gorges of sedimentary rock. Her window scanned mountain peaks with rolling alpine meadows, timberline savannahs following the Colorado River. A view so striking she had to chase it with brandy to steady herself.

SellJohnny on the jewelry distributor angle-he'd hook into that. Let him dream about Big Money. Daylight awoke her in Salt Lake City. A soft yellow afternoon.

She kept the rubberized knapsack beside her, made a phone call from the platform.

Lost

Jack couldn't find Ah Por. She wasn't among the old women in the park on Mulberry. When he reached out to them, they provided no clues. He squeezed the mahjong tile inside his pocket, felt his palm get sweaty even as he turned toward Mott Street.

Clues

When Jack reached the intersection, Lucky was already on the corner of Bayard. Lucky jerked his chin sidewise and disappeared into the Wah Rue bookstore. Jack crossed the street, followed him inside.

Lucky patted Jack down, saying "You did good, Jacky boy. Was the money good enough? You need more next time?"

Jack clutched Lucky's probing hand, squeezed the fingers hard. "That's funny, Tat, but I ain't wearing a wire. You owe me, anyway."

Lucky jerked his hand free. "That's right," he said, "and I got something for you."

Jack's eyes narrowed. "Shoot."

Lucky grinned. "Shoot, ha ha, a cop joke, ha?" He paused. "I got the girlfriend."

"Where?" Jack asked with a poker face.

Lucky took him over to the back racks, sliding his hand along the display of ink brushes, wrapping paper, periodicals, until he stopped and yanked out a Hong Kong Star magazine. He led Jack through a back exit into a small courtyard lined with boh Choy crates and garbage cans.

Jack held his tongue while Lucky flipped through the pages. He could hear the rattle and crash of a fan-tan game somewhere below the building.

"Her name's Mona," Lucky said, stopping his finger at In Concert pictures. "Here, looks like this one, Shirley Yip, the singer. You know which one?"

Jack took the magazine, studied the glossies of the singer in a sequined dress, in a black miniskirt, in a hat and wig get-up.

"Thirtysomething," Lucky said. "A real looker, maybe a hooker."

"So where is she?" Jack deadpanned.

"Gone with the wind, Jacky. Only the Shadow knows."

"That's all you got?" Jack was impatient.

Lucky made a face, said, "Hey, I still didn't get nothing. I want the undercovers, identities, names."

"Oh yeah. I'm making a list, checking it twice," cracked Jack.

"No, no, cuz," Lucky wagged his finger, "I don't need no list. I want pictures, know what I'm saying?"

Jack spread the magazine, tore out the pictures. "It's gonna take time," he said softly.

Lucky lit up a Marlboro, spread his hands out and said, "You see me? I got nothing but time." And exhaled into Jack's face.

Jack held his stare for a moment, then said, "You know the Twenty-Eight got ripped off the other night?"

"Good for them," Lucky said coolly.

"Took fifty G's out of there. They claim you did it."

"Me?"

"Ghosts, the man said."

Lucky's face changed. "Wasn't my crew," he said.

"Don't know nothing about it, huh?"

Lucky was silent, and stood like that a while. The chatter and curses of the fan-tan game echoed somewhere below them.

"This where it ends for you?" Jack asked. "Gambling? Blood money from poor working suckers?

Lucky let the smoke roll out of his nose. "Hey, Chinese like to gamble. Nobody makes them come down."

Jack sneered. "Yeah they do, everybody makes them. Everything they see makes them come down."

"You're bugging out, cousin."

"They want what everyone else's got, and they know money talks."

Lucky laughed small. "Don't get holy, man. It's a Chinaman thing, okay? You got a beef, go yell at OTB. Shit. It's just a living, man."

"No, it's not. I know how it works. Turn the cash into dope, jewelry, gold. Wash everything through Hong Kong banks. Goes in a big circle, right?"

Lucky flicked the cigarette butt, snuffed it with a twist of his heel.

"What you get over there, Jack? Thirty-five, forty G's with overtime?"

"It's honest money."

"That's what it cost to turn you against people used to be your friends? Against working people who never had no beef with you?"

Jack's face tightened. "We only bust the bad ones, Tat Louie."