AFTER ABOUT FIVE minutes, the car nosed into the driveway. He half expected it to reverse back into a U-turn, but it rolled slowly toward the house. As it came closer he could see that it was an old car, a beat-up junker, not the type of vehicle usually seen on the rich side of Edgewater.
It stopped well short of the house. The little puffs of steam stopped streaming from its rear, and he knew the driver had killed the engine.
He resisted the urge to bring his chromed nine millimeter out of the armoire drawer. No one is going to get the drop on me again. He put the alcohol down on the dresser, watched the car from behind the curtains. A man got out and crunched his way across the gravel to his front door. A Chinese man in a parka, who struck him somehow as being American born, a jook sing. The man looked around covertly as he rang the doorbell.
JACK WAITED WHILE the door chime rang out a melodious tune. Waited another minute before hitting it again. Knocked on the door forcefully.
“NYPD,” Jack heard himself announcing. “I’m here to speak with Gee saang, Mr. Gee.” As far as he could tell, there were no lights on in the house. No cars in the driveway. He waited and weighed checking the sides and rear of the house.
MAAT LUN SI ah? he wondered. What the fuck? A New York cop in Jersey?
Everything was locked down, the alarm company on point ever since the invasion. The Chinese chaai lo cop was tripping the motion detectors, was being recorded on the surveillance setup.
He kept quiet and continued to watch from behind the curtains.
IT DIDN’T SEEM like anyone was home, and Jack didn’t want to set off any alarms on the property or in Bossy’s head.
Playing by the book, he backed off to what he thought was the property line and observed what he could. A path to the lake area behind the house. No vehicles anywhere. A patio area that looks unused. Apparently no one home.
THE PHONE SOUNDED somewhere in the bedroom. He found it under one of the pillows and recognized his office number calling. He hoped the cop hadn’t heard it.
“Maatsi?” he asked his receptionist. “What’s the matter?”
“You had a visitor,” she answered. “A chaai lo.”
“Yes.” He knew. He’s outside now.
“He left his card, asked that you call him.”
He thought for a moment, saw the Chinese cop circling to the far side of the house. “Call him back now,” he instructed, “and tell him I’ll be in the office in two hours.” He had no intention of letting him into the house.
“Ho ah,” she acknowledged and hung up.
He rushed to Franky’s room to get a better angle. He saw the cop pull a phone from his jacket. The conversation was short, and the cop took a last look at the house before turning back toward the junker in driveway.
JACK GOT BACK in the Impala, fired it up while replaying the receptionist’s words in his head. Two hours was plenty of time to get back to Bossy’s office, but he knew now there were more answers in Chinatown than in New Jersey.
He wondered about the receptionist and why Bossy’d hired a mature woman instead of some young tart eye candy, which many Chinatown offices featured. She acted like she’d worked there awhile, and Jack thought maybe she was loyal to him, protective.
He had time enough for a quick som bow faahn when he got back to Chinatown, and a few words with Billy Bow.
The car spat steam again as it crunched gravel back toward the highway.
Franky Noodles
THE NOISE LEVEL in Eddie’s was amped, and they both leaned in over their Three Precious plates of rice, som bow faahn, to hear each other.
“Francis Gee?” Billy grinned. “Really?”
Jack nodded as he forked up a piece of soy-sauce chicken.
“Everybody in Chinatown calls him ‘Franky Noodles,’ Billy continued. “Hangs with the Black Dragons. He ain’t no fighter; he’s a rich-boy wannabe. Daddy’s got some juice.” He jabbed up a piece of for ngaap, roast duck.
“The Dragons still working out of that spot behind Half-Ass?” Jack asked, working a forkful of cha siew, roast pork, and fried egg.
“Yeah. I hate those motherfuckers as much as I hate the Ghosts, you know?”
“Yeah,” Jack agreed, knowing Billy hated the thugs and gang culture ruling Chinatown. “He got any beefs?”
“The usual shit between the Dragons and Ghosts. But he’s a player,” Billy sneered. “Drives a tricked-out red Camaro. Acts tough because he knows Daddy can bail him out.”
“Sounds like you don’t like him, man.”
“I hate them all.” Billy chomped a chunk of for yook. “Punk asses giving us hardworking Chinamen a bad name.”
“Right,” Jack agreed, thinking about Half-Ass restaurant and Franky Noodles on Hip Ching–controlled Pell Street. “You got that right.”
THE RECEPTIONIST AT Golden Mountain buzzed Jack in and stalled him while she announced him over the phone intercom. The door to the inner office was open, and he saw a big desk and a pair of club chairs inside.
He took a brochure that had a smiling thumbnail shot of James Gee saang and a business card from the tray on her desk.
She waved him in, rising from her secretarial seat.
Once inside, Jack saw how small the office actually was. James Gee stood to one side of the carved Chinese desk. He was as tall as Jack but had a thick build, thirty pounds overweight made to look neat in the expensive gray suit. Jack suspected his shirt and shoes came with designer labels attached as well, a CEO power-meeting getup straight out of businessmen’s GQ.
Jack noticed how he combed his short hair straight back, old-school style, the way the Chinese barbers on Doyers Street still cut hair.
The door closed behind him as “James” Jook Mun spoke first. “Chor,” he said imperiously in smooth Cantonese, “have a seat,” motioning in the direction of the club chairs. He wore a haggard edge beneath his eyes that his smile didn’t soften.
Jack imagined the faint scent of whiskey and cigars in the air as he sat, quickly scanning the room. There was minimal decor, just a few low file cabinets lining one wall, above which were some framed photos of James with other Chinese men posing with Fraternal Order of Police organizations.
The wall behind the desk featured awards and photos of Chinatown civic groups, a plaque from the Senior Citizens’ Free Breakfast Program, a miniature American flag. He didn’t see any family photos at all.
“Mr. Gee,” Jack began, wanting to start off respectfully before he got to the hard questions.
“Before we begin, Detective,” James interrupted, “there’s something I’m curious about, that I’d like to ask you first.”
“Sure,” Jack said agreeably. “Go ahead.”
“My police friends are much older than you,” James began, “closer to retiring. A few of them have inquired about security positions in our commercial buildings.”
Jack nodded politely, let him continue.
“The problem is, most of the businesses are Chinese, and these policemen are not. Nor do they speak Chinese. I don’t think the tenants can be happy with that.” He paused, sized Jack up with a curious look.
“You said you had a question,” Jack said.
“I was wondering if someone like yourself might consider a security manager position? There aren’t many Chinese policemen, and we both know the pay could be better.”
“I’m happy where I’m at right now,” answered Jack with a small smile. “Someday, maybe, but thanks for the consideration.” Friendly enough so far, he thought.
James held his smile, but something calculating flashed in his eyes.
Jack sensed that they were like two boxers—martial artists—feeling each other out, circling and measuring before throwing punches. He reached into his jacket and took out the snapshot of Singarette, dead in the river. He slid it across the desk and watched it nail James’s attention.