"Bullshit. We take care of the bad ones. You guys just come for the money, to keep score of the bodies."

Jack glared at Lucky.

Lucky relented. "Maybe not you, Jacky, but cops, you know it. Look, fifty G's, you work for us. Nobody's gotta know. Strictly information stuff. You don't touch nothing dirty."

Jack looked up from the courtyard, saw the oyster-colored sky above the rooftops they used to run across.

"What?" Lucky smirked. "You think you're gonna make sergeant and retire here? Don't kid yourself. I won't make the offer again."

"It's not about money," Jack said.

Lucky sneered.

"It's all about money, ain't a damn thing funny."

Chase

Jack sat by the open window in Pa's apartment, studied the magazine pictures and repeated Mona quietly, trying to figure her in his head, guessing. Mona, on the run, away from New York City, to somewhere else Chinese where she could disappear, come back in another guise. A major Chinatown, but away from Boston, Philadelphia, Washington. The picture was getting clearer. Los Angeles, San Francisco, Seattle. From Lor Saang she could flee into Mexico. San Francisco, Seattle, she runs north to Canada. He took a shot of the mao-tai.

Was she still in the country? He thought so, hoped so. Uncle Four would never have allowed her a passport, and the cheap seemistress-wouldn't have had the nerve to troll the underground for fake identification. She probably didn't speak English, so all the arrangements would have to be in Chinese.

He began to list her characteristics on a sheet of paper. l raveling by plane? They'd have to cover the airports, just in case. More likely she's in a car, something low key, a bus or train maybe. Or a boat? Heading east? Chinese in London, in Amsterdam. He doubted it, didn't figure her to head into bad weather.

Going west, he decided, adding details of Mona to the composite.

She's a Chinese woman, Cantonese, maybe traveling alone, probably traveling light. Thirtysomething, five-foot-two, short hair. Fashionably dressed. Might have booked passage to Mexico or Canada.

He buffed up the profile, made it bilingual, offered a reward, sent it by e-mail via the squadroom computer to the thirty-seven travel agencies in the Chinese Business Directory, to the ninety agencies in Lower Manhattan. Then he thought about covering the funeral, and cleaned his Detective Special while he tried to dope it all out.

Chaos

The Dragon war-wagon cruised to a stop, a huge black sedan with four doors, lurched back out of the crosswalk and sat on the corner of Crosby and Broome.

The three Chinese hard boys inside wore black leather jackets and beat-boy sunglasses. Straight black hair cut to fades. The one with the small ring in his earlobe came out and walked diagonally across the street to where the black Lincoln Continental was parked at the curb. He saw the triple eights on the license plate, saw the car was empty. He crossed back to the Buick and they waited, playing thirteen-card poker and smoking cigarettes. Waited for the six-o-clock rush.

From the Buick they saw the old man approach the black Lincoln, stop at the driver's door. Put the key in the handle. By the time he noticed them closing in, the door had swung open.

Gee Man yanked the keys out and took a step backward, turning to flee. But they were upon him, grabbing at him as he lurched down the street. The keys fell from his hand. He noticed people stopping to watch, the words go meng, save me, stuck in his throat. The hard boys brought him down.

"Matsi!' he yelled, "What's up?! I have no money."

He did his best to kick out at them in his desperation. He heard himself shouting, like from inside an oil drum, an echo. Pressure building up inside his chest. They were dragging, halfcarrying him back toward the car.

"What do you want?" he kept screaming, until the pumping in his heart seized and the lights inside his head went to black.

The Dragon boys dropped Gee Man when he clutched tip and foamed from his mouth, left him lying on the cobblestone street, his eyes rolling and flickering, a block from the radio car.

The Buick roared away from the corner, as the evening-rush crowd continued trudging into the sunset.

It was a quarter to eight, almost the end of Jack's shift, when the patrol caught it. Old Chinese man, DOA at Downtown Hospital from a heart attack. Witnesses claimed deceased was attacked by gang kids, who rifled his car.

That could make it a homicide.

Jack took the plate numbers off the report, ran them in the computer-Motor Vehicles, Taxi and Limousine Commission. He crossed into personal overtime when the information floated up on the monitor. Gypsy franchise number 888. Jun Yee Wong. 444 Eighth Avenue. Brooklyn. Didn't match the victim's fact sheet.

SunsetPark.Jack's eyes twitched. About five blocks from his studio, in the Seven-Two Precinct.

Golo bit at his lower lip, tearing tiny pieces of skin from it between the edges of his teeth. He dismissed the gang boys and sat in the dark in the back of the clubhouse.

The Dragons had come back with keys and the driver's address from the car registration, but had left behind a body in the street and many witnesses. He decided not to use them again, the street boys having a way of complicating things. And they may have brought the police into this. He'd have to follow through by himself.

He scanned the papers taken from the triple-eight car. The address was in Brooklyn, around the new Chinatown, he figured. Wait until nightfall. And bring the Tokarev.

Clash

Jack buzzed across the Brooklyn Bridge, came up Eighth Avenue until he found the numbers he sought. The street was dead quiet, lined with four-story brick walk-ups that contained a Cantonese herb shop, a Malaysian bookstore, a Maria's Bakery outlet. All closed.

The lock on the door of 444 was loose. No doorbells, no inter- com.Jack jiggled the knob. After a moment, sure no one was on the street, he slipped his bankcard behind the lock and popped it.

Went up to 3A.

He listened for a few moments. No sounds from inside. He had started twisting the doorknob when the door swung in, just a crack. Unlocked.

Jack put his back to the hall wall, posted his badge, drew his Special. He pushed the door open with his foot, letting hallway light spill into the apartment. He reached in, flicked up the switch inside the door.

The apartment was lit by an incandescent yellow glow. Empty. Looked like someone took off in a hurry. Takeout food left behind. Clothing. Unmade bed. A toaster oven, small color TV. Chinese newspapers, racing forms, OTB bet slips.

Jack holstered the revolver.

A dead driver. A missing driver. Another dead body he didn't need. Turn it over to the Seven-Two.

The man appeared suddenly in the doorway, a Chinese man returningJack's surprise with a nod and a quick scan of the room before he turned to leave.

Six-two, maybe, Jack thought, tall fora Chinese. Jack caught him out on the landing, the man turning, his eyes focused on the badge.

"Ah Sook," Jack began, "uncle..

The man's hand shot up off his hip, surprisingJack, shoving him sideways. The man shifted as Jack twisted, spun in a small circle and folded down into a cat stance. Caught his breath. He thought he saw a pistol inside the man's coat. The tall man launched two sharp kicks atJack's head, grunting, forcing him to one side. The hallway closed in on them. Retreating, Jack kept his punches short, Wing Chun style, clipped the taller man under the side of the chin. The man retreated into a crouch then uncoiled in a lashing of Tiger Claw and Iron Fist that drove Jack backward onto the steps.