Slipping back inside the room, he checked the Ruger, got whiskey from the honor bar, sucked the little bottles down while waiting for Mona's call.

Moves

The afternoon was sunny when Mona descend from the Thruway bus in San Francisco, flagged a cab, gave the driver a slip of paper that said San Rema Motel.

The San Rema Motel was a converted warehouse at the fringe of Chinatown where it stretched into North Beach and rose into Russian Hill.

Mona took a room on the middle floor, facing the courtyard so she could see who was entering, so she could exit tip or down with ease.

The landings which connected the two sections of the motel gave onto numerous exits at the front and back of the complex. She checked the three best routes: from the landings, from the roof, the garage. Stockton Street was the main north-south thoroughfare, leading south to the airport, or north toward the Bay.

She lit a cigarette and took a long drag. Stockton, she was think ing, would be the way to go. She changed into a gray sweatsuit and sneakers, took a bus down to the Business District.

As in New York she found a travel agency that was American but employed a jook sing, American-born Chinese girl, who spoke enough Cantonese to be of help.

Two blocks outside Chinatown she found a convenience store where she purchased a sheet of gay pay ji, plain brown wrapping paper, packing tape, a black marker.

At the San Rema, Room Service delivered a fifth of brandy. Mona nestled the Titan into the Chinese box, was pleased with the fit, then reassembled it with the silencer, the little clip of bullets. She took a taste of the brandy, caught her breath again. Put everything into the Rollmaster. It was almost two, and she thought about calling Johnny, to be sure of what was going on with him. She put on her Vuarnets and went out onto the sunny slope behind the motel.

On the hilly sidewalk, outside a Chinese restaurant, she inserted the phone card, made the call.

"Where are you?" Johnny asked.

She heard the edge on his voice. "SaamFansi," she said calmly. Play it straight with him. "The San Rema Motel." She still needed him.

There was surprise in his voice now and she announced quickly, "I am speaking to you from an outside phone. I only have time to say this once, so listen carefully."

She imagined him nodding yes, grabbing for pen and paper so he wouldn't miss a word.

"Get yourself a car. Wait until night and drive up." She paused for effect. "I need you here" Selling him the plan, the dream. "We're partners, remember. I'm setting up in the jewelry business."

"Jewelry?" he asked.

"But I can't talk about it here. Write this down. San Rema Motel. San, like in mountain." Way mah, unnecessary trouble, he was hearing. San Ray-Ma. 100 Stockton, see dork den, he was hearing it phonetically. "Room 3M. Wait for dark, make sure no one follows you."

She hung up and adjusted the phone card, then her eyes scanned the number on the torn swatch of Chinese newspaper. Call New York, she thought, as she waited through the audio response.

It was 9 a.m. L.A. time when Golo, calling from New York, got hold of Fifth Brother in the Ching association at Wilshire and Yellow.

"No need to waste words, brother," he said. "Room 3M at the Holiday Inn in Chinatown. There's a man, maybe a man and a woman."

"What do you desire? "

"Follow them, do nothing else."

"Done. What else?"

"I need a gun. Nine-millimeter. When I arrive."

"I'll send the lengjai, the punk boys. One of them will pack for you."

"My respects to Seventh Uncle, brother."

"Respects all around."

Golo hung up, and left the clubhouse, went toward Mulberry, where the last of the incense filtered out of the Walt Sang funeral house onto the street and made bittersweet the spirit of the night.

Betrayal

The two bulls from Internal Affairs Division surprised Jack, two big white cops with neat crewcuts and eyes like steel rivets. The captain introduced them, Rob Hogan, Paul DiMizzio. Jack watched quietly as Hogan spoke first.

"Detective, can you explain why we have you on videotape going down to Number Nine Mott Street? Why P.O. Jamal Josephs confirms a subsequent meeting in a bookstore with a known Chinatown gang leader? And why the DEA has you on a bug offering to deliver confidential department information?"

Jack was speechless a moment, his heart trembling during the questions, absorbing the shock and surprise.

"If you have that on tape, you should know I was investigating the Uncle Four shooting."

"And you got shot yesterday, am I correct?"

"Yes," Jack said. "It was only a graze."

"You got shot because of the investigation?"

"I'm not sure it's connected."

"What have you come up with in your investigation?"

"Nothing concrete. I'm working some angles." There was a pause. The men shook their heads, frowning.

"With due respect," Jack said, "the department expects me to solve a crime in seventy-two hours because I'm Chinese?"

The bent-nosed partner, DiMizzio, stepped forward.

"You knew it was illegal to go down into that basement?" he challenged.

"Not in the course of an investigation-"

"Bullshit, Yu. You went down at midnight, twice. That's after your shift and on your own time."

"Yeah, because there's a freeze on overtime, otherwise-"

"Public Morals Division has it under surveillance. Were you aware of that?"

Jack shook his head.

"You might have compromised several ongoing investigations, besides associating with known members of Chinese organized crime."

"He was someone I knew from the neighborhood."

"You saying you have a snitch in the Ghost Legion?"

"I didn't say that."

"That's too bad, he could have been helpful."

Hogan, never taking his eyes offJack, said, "Yeah, we know all about Tat Louie and his punk-ass bullshit. Gambling. Drugs. Extortion. Another On Yee wannabe. Yeah, we know he was shit deep on the Peking Haircut Case. Nine years ago. Remember that?"

Jack remained quiet, staring back, thinking of Wing.

DiMizzio said, "Three Wah Ying gang members butchered in that barbershop on Hester? Stabbed. Shot. Had their dicks cut off?"

"Yeah," Jack answered. "Never caught anyone, did you?"

"No," said Hogan. "The case is still open, but we know Tat was involved. And you two were friends then, correct?"

"I was in the army then."

Hogan smirked, said, "Funny how the Ghosts walked in and took over after that. Never saw another Wah Ying anywhere."

Jack smirked back. "Yeah, well, the world spins like a wheel. What goes around, comes around."

DiMizzio glowered. "What's that? Chinese philosophy? Or are you condoning murder?"

"Just like I said," Jack repeated. "What goes around, comes around. What's your beef? It's my fault you don't know how to close a case?"

"Maybe you know more than you're saying," Hogan snapped. "Maybe you were involved."

"Maybe you should go fuck yourself,"Jack barked.

"Tough guy, huh?" Hogan scowled. "We're going to keep an eye on you."

"Yeah, the way you guys keep an eye on things, I know I got nothing to worry about."