“C’mon,” Billy said, “enough is enough. I’ll drive you home, bro. Unless you want to go for siew yeh snacks.”

“Home sounds good,” answered Jack.

“I bet.” Billy nosed the black car back toward Brooklyn.

THE RIDE BACK was relatively quiet—no Steppenwolf, no rock ‘n’ roll—with just some generic news station that Billy had switched to. Neither man spoke, watching the highway and the night beyond.

Jack knew Billy was savoring the flavors of his night’s exploits, and Billy knew Jack was preoccupied, turning over whatever clues he had in his mind. Cop work. He had a homicide, a body with two names, a set of keys, and an unknown motive. They passed that section of the Harlem River where Sing’s body was discovered earlier in the morning. Where the victim worked, where he gambled, maybe. Was it just over a gambling debt? Billy worked his way through traffic. But who collects from a dead man? It didn’t make sense to kill him. Was it a robbery? But why go through the trouble to dump him in the river? How much of a debt costs someone his life? And how come no ID?

Traffic thinned out, and Billy had them rolling through Sunset Park before the weight of the day’s events could finally settle, take hold.

Money—Ah Por’s words—the root of all evil.

Home

JACK SAT ON the edge of his bed and stripped, thinking he’d get a few hours’ sleep before the visit to the Chinatown funeral parlor where Sing’s pre-cremation wake would be held. He didn’t know if it was the fatigue from the twenty-four-hour murder shift or the cheap beer at Booty’s or the drinks at Grampa’s and Fay Lo’s that was dragging him down.

He closed his eyes, saw glimpses of Alex’s naked curves, the lean angles of her arms and legs. He took another breath, imagining an herbal scent in her hair. Hips, thighs, breasts, firm and soft where he’d caressed them. Places that became hard upon his touch.

He remembered taking a deep cleansing breath, still remembering Alex’s wet and tender places. Then his head hit the pillow, and he went down for the count.

Field of Dreams

THE COUNT DIDN’T go to oblivion, but to a series of disjointed dreams and images.

He saw himself, nighttime at the racetrack. He’s in the grandstand watching a racing filly named Alexandra pulling a sulky around the oval track. She’s hopelessly boxed in along the rail by the other horses and their rigs.

The dream jumped to:

Naked women cavorting to a remix of “Sukiyaki” in a strip club. Cascading money, with Billy throwing folded-dollar airplanes at the topless dancers.

Cops silently lingering over a dead body floating in the river.

The sequence jumped again to:

Gritty piles of money for bets on a pair of colorful fighting fish separated in a square tank at Fay Lo’s gambling joint. An explosion in the water, bloody fins and organs flying as the frenzied fish tear each other to shreds.

Silence over Yao “Singarette’s” corpse on the steel slab at the morgue, from possible suicide to homicide in a single thrust.

The root of all evil. Ah Por’s words breaking the silence.

Following the dreams was a dizzying kaleidoscope of images. Freudian stuff he’d prepared for the NYPD shrink.

A pit bull lunging at him out of the ghetto project’s darkness.

A Chinese

tong

enforcer bearing down on him as he frantically tries to reload.

His Colt revolver clicking on empty chambers.

Lucky, Chinatown ex–blood brother and Ghost Legion street-gang boss, suddenly sitting up out of his hospital coma.

The last image jolted Jack awake in his bed. He tried to get back to sleep but wound up drinking green tea and thinking about the Wah Fook funeral parlor as morning light crept into the bedroom.

For Jong

THE WAH FOOK still had the nineteenth century baroque façade from when it was the Bacigalupe Funeral Home, with the relief columns and sculptural decorations still visible on old buildings throughout Chinatown and Little Italy.

Jack remembered the Italian mob in Chinatown used to store its illegal Fourth of July fireworks that it hawked on Canal Street in the Bacigalupe basements.

Plastic signage in Chinese covered over the Bacigalupe name that had been carved into the stone above the portico entrance.

There were two old lanterns above the bronze entrance doors on which seven death notices—white tickets with the Chinese names of the dead—had been posted. Jack saw the one closest to what he was looking for, Jun Wah Zhang, and went inside. He badged the manager, who led him past the two wakes in progress to a smaller room at the end of the corridor and turned on the ceiling lights. There was a closed casket there, but the room hadn’t been set up for a wake yet.

On a small table to one side, there was an urn. An inexpensive one you could find in any of the Chinatown curio shops. Dark glazed ceramic, featuring bronze mountains and green scenery of leaves and trees. Colors of the earth. Big enough to hold all the remains of what was once a man.

No picture.

Nothing but a Chinese name in black ink on a white scrap of paper. A name that wasn’t even really his, a name he’d purchased.

“What can you tell me about him?” Jack asked.

“The association paid for the urn, the for jong cremation, and the burial in their field at the cemetery.”

“It’s empty now?” Jack asked, looking at the urn. Fire interred.

“Yes. When we receive the ashes we’ll repack them in the urn. Then it goes out for burial with the next procession.”

“That’s it?”

“As far as we know.” The manager shrugged.

The urn was set on the side in a dark room because Jun was an orphan, and though there’d be an obituary posted quickly in the Sing Tow Journal, no one really expected anyone to come.

The manager dimmed the lights and left Jack sitting on a solitary folding chair near the back wall.

Jack thought he’d visit Ah Por next for more clues, since he was only two blocks from the Seniors’ Center. He figured he’d also check South Bronx hospitals for recent Asian victims of assault.

He was looking toward the closed casket, hoping it was empty, when he caught her out of the corner of his eye: a woman in a cherry-red down jacket coming into the room, stopping, and looking toward the urn. She hadn’t noticed him in the dim light by the back wall.

She’d surprised him, not only because he didn’t expect anyone to come—except maybe Billy’s friend from the Gee Association—but because no Chinese ever wore red to a wake. So it must have been a surprise to her, too. She couldn’t have expected to come here.

She looked to be in her late twenties, short hair, a rugged red windburn on her cheeks. A sad face now as she approached the urn table. From the bottom shelf of the table she grabbed a stack of paper, death money, lit it, and dropped it, flaming, into a blackened brass bucket. A bribe to the gods for mercy in the next world. She plucked three sticks of incense and lit them, bowed three times before the urn, and stuck the incense sticks into a cup there. She shook her head, whispered a few quiet words.

Before Jack could move, she rushed out.

She was already out the front door when Jack stepped from the room. He zipped up his jacket and went out to Mulberry Street after her.

He followed her north toward Canal Street, keeping a half-block behind so as not to spook her. Stepping quickly, she wore a black turtleneck sweater under the bright jacket that meant she was still celebrating the Chinese New Year.

Almost to Canal, he saw her slip into the driver’s side of one of the Ford vans parked along the street, the vans carrying the cardboard crates of fruits for the day’s sidewalk market.

Jack stopped, waited at a distance. The simple rub-on letters on the van’s front doors identified them as Chong Vihn Produce, a warehouse address in Brooklyn. Vietnamese Chinese.