In the quiet room, he watched the slow rise and fall of Lucky’s chest, listening for the soft ping of the machine that kept him alive. That’s it, brother? This is how it ends for you? Another gangbanger bites the dust?

HE CAUGHT A ride with an EMS tech headed back to Chinatown on the evening meal run.

At the Fifth, the sarge handed Jack a copy of Gaw’s prints.

“He wanted a phone call,” the sarge said. “Had this lawyer’s card in his wallet.” The business card belonged to Solomon Schwartz. “But you know,” Sarge said with a grin, “the shoddy service around here, the phones ain’t working.”

“Thanks, Sarge.” Jack laughed weakly, heading back out to Bayard.

AT THE TOMBS, Jack asked the familiar officers for help.

“Anyone tries to bail him, lose the paperwork for a few hours. I’ll be back in the morning. This guy’s in deep, and we don’t want to chase him. Trust me. It’ll be good press, and I’ll make sure you won’t regret it.”

The Tombs officers allowed Jack to make phone calls, send fingerprint faxes and voice mail. When he finished, he took a cab to Sunset Park.

Back in his Brooklyn apartment, he stripped down carefully, avoiding the stitches. He remembered to set his clock alarm before exhaustion and the pain medication dropped him into oblivion.

Knowledge Is Power

IN DAYLIGHT, THE stitches looked uglier than the night before, and surface pain from the cuts on his legs pinched with every step.

He was still groggy when he arrived at the Tombs, the place already abuzz with the processing of the morning’s criminals. He badged his way to the clerk’s office in the back and found the faxes he was hoping for.

The first one was from the Royal Hong Kong Police Force, February 21, 1995:

RHKPF Headquarters Mongkok Station, Kowloon

PRINT Subject Wanted in HK for triple homicide in 1975

.

DETAIN Subject indefinitely. Fax from

Immigration and Naturalization Service to follow

.

In small type at the bottom of the fax:

Thanks, Inspector Chow Yin Fat RHKPF

The second fax was more recent, from Interpol, shorthand for the International Criminal Police Organization.

PRINT Subject is Red Notice, wanted member of illegal Triad society, Hok Nam Moon. Absconded via Hong Kong 1975. Detain without fail. Immigration/Deportation to follow

.

A Red Notice was Interpol’s highest level of alert, an arrest warrant that circulated worldwide.

If Gaw was a Triad true believer, he wasn’t going to flip on Bossy or the Triad or whoever put him up to Sing’s murder. Maybe he’ll take his chances with deportation.

As Jack was pondering it, another fax chugged through the machine. It was a reply to Jack from the New York City Bureau of Records, referring to Gaw’s Social Security number that he’d used on a license/DOT vehicle registration form. Following Jack’s inquiry, the holder of that assigned Social Security number was declared inactive, dead in 1974.

A hunch has paid off.

Somehow, Gaw had managed to assume another Chinese identity, a dead man. Whether the Triad or Duck Hong’s people had arranged the paper deal, Jack couldn’t know, but he realized now that Gaw had been hiding in plain sight for two decades.

And he probably wasn’t going to be cooperative.

JACK CROSSED OVER to the detention/holding side of the Tombs facility. There was a room with a small table where they brought Gaw to be interviewed.

“I know Gaw’s not your real name,” Jack started in street Cantonese.

Mak Mon Gor laughed quietly.

“I know you suckered Zhang with a bullshit abalone deal, then killed him,” Jack said. “But I think someone put you up to it. It was your boss, Jook Mun Gee, wasn’t it?”

“Dew nei louh mou,” Gaw cursed. “Fuck your mother.”

“I should have figured it earlier,” Jack said.

“I should have killed you earlier,” Gaw spat.

“What did Bossy offer you?” Jack challenged. “Money?”

“Dew nei louh mou.”

“You killed him in that little park.”

“Fock you, mathafocker.”

The door swung open, and an older man in a business suit entered the room. Gray hair, fiftyish. The man parked his expensive briefcase on the table.

“Interview’s over,” the man said. “I’m his lawyer.” He slid his business card onto the table. “Solomon Schwartz.”

Jack wasn’t surprised, knew legal would appear sooner or later. “The interview was over before you got here,” said Jack.

“It’s an outrage, Detective,” Schwartz complained, “not allowing a phone call from the precinct? He’s been denied due process.”

“The process isn’t perfect,” Jack said. “But I’ll tell you what’s due, Counselor. A judge is going to remand without bail. Your ‘motherfucker’ client here is a flight risk. Not only did he try to kill a cop, but he’s wanted for even more trouble than your fancy words can get him out of.”

Gaw frowned and mumbled curses under his breath.

“I’ll have him out in twenty-four hours,” said Schwartz.

“I don’t think so. Hong Kong’s got first dibs. Interpol’s tagged a Red Card on him, and Immigration’s been notified.”

Solomon just shook his head, uncertain if it was a bluff or if he’d been outplayed on the overnight by the Chinese detective.

“Here or at Rikers, it doesn’t really matter,” continued Jack. “I don’t think he’ll be staying long.”

“How’s that?” Solomon asked.

“Interview’s over,” Jack said with a smile. “Send Bossy my regards.” He left the room throwing a last look in Gaw’s direction. Gaw was still scowling, staying inside himself. Could he have another card to play? wondered Jack.

He left the Tombs, went past the guard booth. One of the overnight officers apologized. “Sorry about the lawyer,” he said. “Prisoner claimed he was sick, needed medication. Needed to call his doctor. So they let him make a call. He spoke Chinese with someone.”

“No problem,” said Jack, figuring, Gaw probably called Bossy, who called Schwartz.

WITH CAPTAIN MARINO’S help from the Fifth Precinct, Jack obtained two warrants—one for Gaw’s Town Car, the other for his Pell Street apartment. Jack borrowed Gaw’s keys from Property, headed for Rickshaw Garage first.

The manager recognized Jack and escorted him to the Lincoln. The five-year-old car still looked in mint condition. According to the ticket, the car was returned a few minutes before Jack first spotted Gaw walking into Pell Street. But where he’d been prior didn’t seem to matter much anymore. Jack waited until the manager left before sliding into the passenger side.

The interior of the car was pristine, a somber gray color, the same as the hundreds of other cars that the see gays drove to cemeteries, weddings, and proms. There was a box of tissues on the backseat. He checked under the seats, along the door panels, in the center console. All clear.

In the glove compartment he found some Hong Kong pop music tapes, a few transportation maps of the tri-state area, and tour brochures of Boston and Philadelphia Chinatowns. There were booklets from a car dealership, a pen from China Village restaurant, some auto wipes, and a plastic Ziploc bag with wah moy, chan pei moy, and hawthorn flakes, Chinese candies for the road. Otherwise, all clear.

He moved to the rear of the car and popped the trunk using Gaw’s key. There was a plastic milk crate that served as a road emergency kit: flares, jumper cables, flashlight, tow rope, a can of tire inflator. To one side a roll of paper towels; some plastic takeout bags; a gai mo so, feather duster; and a can of air freshener. A collapsible shovel, an ice scraper-brush-combination tool. A carton of cigarettes, Marlboros, with a few packs missing. And no New York State tax stamp.