Billy narrowed his doubtful eyes at the photo of the Ghost. “Got a tune-up. Was it something he said?”

“Should be healed up a bit. Might be wearing shades, though. And might still have a fat lip or swollen jaw.”

Billy shrugged and rolled his eyes.

“What?” asked Jack.

“I could do it, but …”

“But what?”

“But,” Billy began, grinning, “ain’t that what they pay you to do?”

“You got a short memory, Bow. The last time I went down there I got suspended from the job. If I don’t have a warrant, my word don’t mean shit.”

“So what does that make me? Like a spy? A private eye?”

“More like a CI, a confidential informant.”

“Oh yeah? Sounds like a rat. But don’t those guys get paid, somehow?”

“Yeah, you get paid in drinks here at Grampa’s. And a bonus round at Angelina’s, if things go right.”

Billy glared at Doggie Boy’s photo, staring it down like he was memorizing it.

“Okay, I’m in.” Billy smirked. “Twenty bucks up front.”

“What?”

“You expect me to walk around just peepin’ at people and not betting? Ain’t that a bit obvious?”

“Stretch it,” Jack said, giving Billy the twenty.

“I wasn’t planning on losing,” Billy said as he finished his beer.

JACK SAT IN the front of the Wonton Dynasty, nursing his gnow nom noodles, across the street from the gambling basements on Mott. He was waiting for a call back from Billy, CI gambling while on surveillance.

Slurping the noodles, Jack had figured the Ghosts would still put Doggie Boy to work, earning his keep even though he was recovering. They’d have him working inside, out of sight, maybe watching the back door of one of the basements—number 55 or number 69—that the gang protected.

“Go to the back and ask for a cup of tea,” Jack had advised Billy. “The drinks are always in the back.”

Billy popped out of number 55 in fifteen minutes, shaking his head no when he spotted Jack in the noodle joint.

“No luck, boss,” Billy said over the cell phone. “Seen a few scumbags. But not that one.” He went down the block and disappeared into number 69.

Jack planned his next move as he waited.

Less than ten minutes later, Billy was back on the street, telling Jack over the cell phone, “Strike two, bro. They must’ve gotten this boy off the main drag.”

“Go to Mulberry Street,” Jack directed. “Number 79. The Video Palace is a front. Go out the back to the courtyard. They got keno and video poker there. Probably dealing cigarettes and weed, too.”

“Dime bags? How much should I buy?”

“Come on, Billy!”

“Only kiddin’, bro!”

“Just see if he’s there,” Jack groused.

“Okay, relax!” Billy snickered. “Dewey lay, right? If I see him, I’ll call you.”

Jack took a breath, recovered the Zen that Billy had drained out of him.

Let it go. Let it flow.

HE HEADED TOWARD the Harmonious Garden, walking north on Baxter Way past cop cars, prisoner vans, and corrections personnel at the monolithic Tombs facility. He greeted some of the uniformed corrections van drivers whom he’d met while signing off prisoner transfers to Rikers Island. They slapped palms as Jack continued toward the Chinese restaurant at number 99.

The Harmonious Garden was a cramped fast-food joint that had a back door leading to a cinder-block bunker slapped up in the courtyard between buildings. The hidden bunker also led to the rear exit of 79 Mulberry Street, so gamblers could secretly walk through the block without being seen on either street.

Jack knew the On Yee tong covered the little operation with pocket money and probably supplied the bootleg cigarettes and whatever alcohol and drugs they were peddling. He wasn’t surprised that the Ghosts ran the gambling joint under the noses of the Fifth Precinct, two blocks away, and the DOC, in the shadow of the Tombs.

The Chinese were still invisible to many of the uniformed, or uninformed, officers in the area, who mainly wanted to finish their shifts and not have to deal with the bewildering, insular Chinese community.

He ordered a quick som bow faahn plate, put his cell phone on the table, and kept a discreet eye on the back door. Billy should be almost there, he thought, sipping the hot cup of house tea the waiter had plopped down onto the plastic tabletop. He was wondering how he could get to Fay Lo without him lawyering up, when the back door swung open.

Jack watched as a gang member stepped through, wearing an oversized pair of knockoff Dolce & Gabbana sunglasses. A short and scrawny guy, thought Jack as the gangsta summoned a waiter and began placing orders. A punk ass with a dailo attitude.

The cell phone buzzed, and Jack saw Billy’s message: SAW HIM. HE JUST LEFT OUT BACK.

Thanks, Jack thought sardonically, timing is everything. He turned his attention back to the junior gangbanger and now saw the Chinese word for “dog” tattooed on his neck.

Dropping a few dollars on the table, Jack pushed back and rose from his seat.

“Hey gou jai!” he called out. “Doggie Boy!” Like he was an old acquaintance.

Doggie Boy sized Jack up, sneered, and spat, “Who the fuck are you?”

Jack flapped open his jacket to flash the gold detective’s shield. “Let’s talk, kai dai.”

“Fuck you!” yelled Doggie Boy, suddenly darting out of the side door of the restaurant.

Jack sprinted after him, both of them zigzagging across Baxter Way. They were almost to the Tombs when Jack pounced and slam-tackled him into the side of a corrections van. The uniformed officers recognized Jack and prepared for backup response.

Jack twisted Doggie into an arm lock, forced him into the van.

“You make me chase you, punk kai dai?” Jack threw him against the wall of the van.

“What the fuck?” Doggie protested. “I didn’t do nothing!”

“Then why’d you run?” Jack said as he cuffed him to the prisoner’s railing.

“I got enough trouble without cops.”

Jack pulled a switchblade out of Doggie’s jacket. “Well, now you got more trouble coming,” Jack threatened.

“Fuck you! I didn’t—” Doggie cursed as Jack bitch-slapped him across the face, sending the fake D&G shades flying and revealing the bruises still evident around Doggie’s eyes.

“Owwww fuck!” Doggie howled.

Jack braced him against the prisoner bench and showed him the river photo of dead Sing.

“Oh shit!” Doggie cursed, shaking his head. “What the fuck is that?”

“He owed Fay Lo,” Jack said. “And you punk asses killed him when he couldn’t pay up!”

“What? No, man! You got that shit all wrong!”

“You suckered him and killed him!”

“No, man! Thass crazy! Who da fuck collects from a dead man?”

“Yeah, you were trying to make an example out of him.”

“Thass crazy, yo! Swear to God, we didn’t have nothing to do with killing him!”

“Who did then?”

“How the fuck should I know?”

“Look, boy. You keep boo-shitting me, and I don’t have the time to waste. We’re already here at the Tombs. See my brothers outside? They can process you quick, get you off to Rikers.”

“Naw, man. No way. I didn’t do nothing!”

“Yeah, you. And your Ghost punks.”

“No way!” Doggie continued protesting. “Thass crazy.”

“I’m going to charge you with promoting and protecting an illegal gambling enterprise,” Jack said, stone-faced. “And weapons possession for the stiletto. Then I’m going to bust the blockhouse and tell them you gave it up, and we had to arrest you just to make it look good. Gonna tell them you’re my snitch now, okay, bitch? How you think that’s going to play? And you probably got priors and probation and whatever other shit you got on your sheet that will put you on the express back to Rikers anyway. You know how the brothers there will welcome your tight little Chinese ass, right?”