“And you know that how?” Jack countered.

“Ancient Chinese secret.”

“Stop fucking around, Billy. It’s a homicide deal now.”

“Meet me at Grampa’s.”

“What the fuck?” Jack started.

But Billy had hung up.

Golden Star

THE GOLDEN STAR Bar and Grill, also known as Grampa’s, was a revered Chinatown jukebox joint. Located on the far stretch of East Broadway, the hot spot was a big dugout basement three steps down from the street, far enough away from the core of Chinatown to escape the influence of the traditional old-line tongs.

Because Grampa’s mixed bag of Lower East Side regulars included Chinatown denizens, blacks and Latinos from the projects, and rotating teams of undercover cops, the popular bar was considered neutral turf even for the rival street gangs that rolled in and out. Hardheads looking for a beef usually took their differences down the street beneath the Manhattan Bridge or under the highway by the East River.

Inside, under dim blue lighting, a long, oval-shaped bar dominated the space. There was an arcade bowling game up front, a big jukebox set up in the middle, and a pool table in the back next to the kitchen.

Grampa’s was almost empty, with only a few late-afternoon stragglers looking for an alcohol fix before the dinner crowd drifted in. Billy sat at the far end of the bar, watching the door.

As he entered, Jack felt gnawing hunger and realized he hadn’t eaten since dawn. Between the river and the morgue, he’d lost his appetite and had been running on adrenaline. He signaled the barmaid and ordered a steak before Billy motioned him over to one of the empty booths.

Billy came over with two beers in his fist, slid in opposite Jack, and nudged across one of the bottles. They clanged glass, and each took a swig.

“So what do you have?” Jack asked eagerly.

“Slow down, kemosabe,” Billy said, taking his sweet time lighting up a cigarette. “You first.”

Jack recounted the basic facts of the case, keeping the details close to his vest. He knew Billy was dying to spill. His steak arrived, and he sliced into it as Billy began his tale.

“It’s a paper deal,” Billy offered. “Your dead man bought the papers off a college student who had dropped out and returned to the village.”

Jack nodded his okay, tucking into the savory plate. Keep coming, he motioned with the steak knife.

“Jun Wah Chang is really Yao Sing Chang, one of the village orphans.”

Jack took a gulp of beer, trying to digest the new information. He wouldn’t be surprised if the Gees were running a paper operation like many of the other associations were doing—getting their members to America by any means necessary.

“He called, looking for work in Chinatown restaurants. They thought he was calling from Canada.”

“Wait.” Jack emphasized with the point of the serrated knife. “You’re getting all this from the guy at Gee’s who didn’t know nothing from nothing this morning? But somehow from then to now, he suddenly remembers the guy’s whole life in China?” He could almost see Billy blushing red in the dim blue light.

“Maybe he called the village, all right?”

“Why so helpful all of a sudden?”

“Maybe because I conned him into thinking it was better to have you as a friend than as an enemy.”

“He didn’t seem to care this morning,” Jack said.

“Maybe he realized you can fix some traffic tickets or something.”

“Funny. Ha-ha.”

“Hey, he volunteered it,” Billy mock groused. “What the fuck do I care? You want the rest of it or what?”

“Shoot.”

“Since Yao’s an orphan,” Billy continued, “the Gee Association will pay for the cremation and services, whatever, on behalf of the village.”

“When?”

“The wake is tomorrow morning at Wah Fook.”

“So fast?”

“It’s symbolic, yo. You think anybody’s checking the ashes? They can bury him anytime. Whenever the cremation’s done. It’s all potter’s field anyways.”

“What time?”

“Nine to noon. They already posted an obit in the Chinese papers.”

“Ceremonial,” Jack observed. “What cemetery?”

“You gotta check with Wah Fook.” Billy seemed amused, watching Jack carve off pieces of Kim’s legendary rib eye, devouring them.

“Any other surprises?” Jack asked as they clanged the last of their beers. Billy chortled like a villain.

“You know those phone numbers on the menu paper?” Billy paused for effect as Jack waited for the punch line. “They’re restaurants all owned by Bossy Gee.”

BOSSY GEE lit up a few lights in Jack’s head. Prominent Chinatown businessman, big shot with the Hip Ching Association. Owns a bunch of Chinatown buildings. His family had a long local history, with connections to Hong Kong and Taiwan.

“The eight-eight-eight prefix on those restaurant numbers?” Billy offered. “Bossy’s idea. The Lucky Eights. Bot bot bot. The Triple Eights.”

Gamblers’ numbers, suckers’ payout. He wondered if it was all just coincidence. Bossy Gee had been investigated by the Organized Crime Control Bureau (OCCB) for alleged ties to local tongs. Bossy Gee was known as the black sheep of the Gees. Not surprising that the association wouldn’t want to get dragged into any of his endeavors.

“The Lucky Dragon and Lucky Phoenix he acquired in a fire sale. The previous Fukienese owner’s daughter got shot and killed outside the Lucky Dragon. And the Lucky Phoenix was in debt after their accountant cooked the books and disappeared. Now Bossy’s leasing out the two joints to new Fuks.”

That explained the bleak and beat-down feel of the Lucky restaurants. They hadn’t been so lucky for the operators, first-generation Chinese immigrants in the South Bronx, more grist for the grind of ghetto crime.

Billy ordered another round of beers, snuffed out his cigarette butt. “The other two, China Village and Golden City,” Billy continued, “Bossy’s had them a long time. Guess they’re doing okay.”

Jack remembered the modified Chinatown-restaurant business models he’d visited. He finished his steak, recalling, Bossy Gee had two sons, one who joined the Marines, and another who joined the Black Dragons. One boy had a soldier’s dream; the other has a criminal record.

The beers arrived, and Jack decided to pace himself, figuring he’d have a long night ahead. Now he had even more questions than answers, and questions in Chinatown rarely led in just one direction. He knew it was too late to find Ah Por and decided to visit her in the morning with the knockoff wristwatch.

Someone started up the jukebox with Gloria Estefan’s “Cuts Both Ways.” It reminded him of Alexandra, but the warm and soft images of Alex naked in bed were crowded out by the memory of the cold and hard body on the refrigerated rack at the morgue.

He resisted the urge to call her.

“You hang out here,” Billy instructed. “I gotta close up the tofu shop. Then I’ll take the old Mustang outta Confucius, and we’ll go for a ride.”

“Where?” Jack asked skeptically.

“Didn’t you say Yao had gambling problems in the Bronx? You mentioned Fay Lo’s, right?”

“You know where Fay Lo’s is?”

“No, but I know how to get there.”

Jack shot him a you-must-be-high look.

“There’s a car, or minivan, that goes there,” Billy added.

“To Fay Lo’s?” Jack pressed.

“It’s like a junket, I hear. For the seniors, the old fart playas.” Billy grinned. “We can follow them.”

“Who?” Jack quizzed. “Where?”

“The minivan waits on Doyers. I think it’s a Ghost racket. Takes the old-timers to the tracks and titty bars, to Chinese gambling Bronx-style.” The Ghost Legion connection made Jack think about his onetime blood brother, Lucky Louie, Ghost dailo boss, who was useless to him now, lying in a coma at Downtown Medical.