“We’re trying to get you to a better jail, near Chinatown,” translated Tsai. “Your lawyer feels that the prosecutors don’t have a case.” Tsai turned away from Littman, saying, “Also, about the bail: the association’s member’s restaurants proved to be unreliable as collateral. Too many silent partners.”
Johnny nodded, disappointed. He’d heard a similar claim during their last meeting.
“We’re canvassing the membership,” Tsai continued in a confidential tone. “For houses, family homes we can use toward the bond. We’ll have to wait and see.”
Johnny had also heard this before; different words, same meaning. He noticed Lee-mon observing Tsai go, curious about the long translation of his own brief statements.
Tsai turned to Littman, saying in his Hong Kong English, “Don’t be concerned. I am keeping his hope alive.” He smiled. “It is a Chinese thing.”
Littman narrowed his eyes at Johnny, cracked a crooked smile. Tsai, turning back to Johnny, continued, “Now, you said you remembered something.”
Johnny hesitated.
“Don’t worry,” Tsai reassured him, “he doesn’t understand Cantonese.”
Johnny took a breath. “I had a dream,” he began. “Maybe it means something”.
“Go ahead.”
“She had a lot of different jewelry, I remembered, but she always wore a jade charm. Hanging off her wrist. It was white and gray, with pa kua, Taoist, designs on it. Round, like a coin, a nickel.”
“Was she religious?” asked Tsai.
“I don’t think so. But I heard her praying once.”
“Praying?”
“Like chanting.”
“Buddhist?”
“Maybe. She did it low, almost whispering. And she stopped when she became aware of my presence.”
Tsai was silent. Buddhist, he thought, so it would be wise to check Chinatown temples.
Littman interjected, “Tell him what we’ll do to the Chinese cop on the stand, once he mentions the missing lady. The person of interest.”
Tsai didn’t let his annoyance show, but instead smiled quietly at the intrusion.
“Your lawyer,” he translated, “assures you the courts will rule in your favor.” He nodded at Littman, who seemed pleased.
The Chinese cop, Tsai remembered, the American-born Chinese, the jook sing, empty piece of bamboo. They would dredge up his tainted career, his Chinatown misadventures, and destroy his credibility.
“Time’s up!” yelled the prison guard, opening the door of the interview room with a bang.
Littman shook Johnny’s hand, saying, “No worries, be patient,” and watched as Johnny shuffled back toward his cinder-block cell.
Tsai stayed behind Littman and followed the guards out, thinking, Buddhist temples and Chinese jewelry stores.
Back to the Future
The long detail in the Chinatown Precinct had exhausted Jack. He was happy to be back on days in the Ninth, the 0-Nine.
The previous day’s reports were loaded up on the computer blotter: A teenage wolf pack of a dozen black and Latino youths had assaulted and robbed a Russian immigrant couple in the Alphabets. They’d smashed the man over the head with a brick, and were attempting to rape the woman when patrol arrived and scattered them. On the outskirts of Chinatown, an Organized Crime Control Bureau detail raided a warehouse and confiscated seventy-five thousand dollars’ worth of bootleg and contraband cigarettes. Fake Camels and Marlboros from China. The Ghost Legion was involved somehow, thought Jack. Earlier, a man stabbed another man in a Chinatown nail salon. Ming Chu, twenty-six, knifed another Asian man and was charged with second-degree attempted murder and first-degree assault. The motive was unclear. In the East Village, a crew of thugs robbed a Korean deli, wounding the owner’s sister. In NoHo, two illegal Chinese nationals were arrested for making high-end purchases with counterfeit credit cards. The two were caught with sixteen bogus credit cards in their possession.
The three Chinese-involved cases had Prosecutor Bang Sing’s name attached to them: he was a Chinese ADA saddling up against Chinese criminals the same way that Jack was pitted against the Chinatown underworld.
Woman Warrior
The shooting space consisted of eight shallow stalls, each with a small counter that looked out over twenty-five feet toward the target end of the range.
Alex saw a series of paper targets clipped onto cable wire, vibrating to the concussion of multiple volleys and staccato bursts of gunfire. Stepping inside the enclosure, the shooter already had “ears” on, noise-canceling headsets that muffled the continuous explosive gunshots from the stalls, where civilians and professionals blasted away with everything from .22s to .9-millimeters to .45s. A deafening barrage of deadly projectiles.
The smell of cordite and gunshot residue filled the air.
The shooter usually clipped a target to the wire, reeled it out to a desired distance, and donned protective eyewear. Weapons were loaded and reloaded on the small countertop as shooters settled themselves, preparing to fire away.
Alex leveled the Smith & Wesson Ladysmith, taking a breath as she focused on the large body target ten feet away, a threatening dark silhouette. Using a two-handed stance, with her free hand cupped under her gun fist, she felt the fight of the trigger, and squeezed off a one- and a two-shot burst. Paused. Then two more. Bam! Bambam! Bambam! And she still had three shots left in the model 317 Airlite, an eight-shot .22-caliber revolver that Jack had recommended. It weighed less than ten ounces on an aluminum alloy frame, had a black rubber grip, and a smooth combat trigger. Eight shots from a revolver was a definite advantage, and the piece fit nicely inside her designer handbag. The high-velocity long-rifle bullets could rip a hole through a phonebook and still take out an eye.
Jack had warned her, “You shouldn’t be capping anybody more than ten feet away. Otherwise, it ceases to be self-defense. And don’t go chasing after them, either, for Crissakes.”
Alex chuckled at the memory, put the gun down, and reeled in the target. She ran her index finger over the little holes in the black-paper torso-shaped target: a single hit on the right shoulder, then two more across the breastplate, grouped closer together. The last two only an inch apart, just under the heart.
The way Jack had taught her: Shoot to kill. Or don’t shoot at all.
The .22-caliber load, even with the high-velocity rounds, had very little kick and was easy to handle. Alex had developed a relaxed natural style, letting loose a volley from different defensive positions: combat conditions. She even felt she could make a torso hit shooting from the hip.
“Yeah, right,” Jack had teased. “A real Annie Oakley.”
She looked over her shoulder as gunshots thundered from the stalls around her, saw Jack on the other side of the Plexiglas window. He was smirking and giving her a thumbs-up.
She flashed him a small wave of her hand.
“Freakin’ too good,” Jack whispered to himself, watching Alex through the big picture window that opened on six of the dark stalls, part of the soundproofed dividing wall that separated the lounge area from the target range. She was wearing a dark outfit—black vest and jeans—which reminded Jack of an avenging angel.
The lounge area consisted of a soda machine, a bathroom, and a long couch where members could sit and wait if the place was fully occupied. There was a stack of gun magazines on a folding table: Hunting Guide; Sportsman’s World; Competition Shooting.
Alex was beginning to shoot instinctively, Jack knew, becoming one with the little lady’s gun that was lightweight but deadly. He knew she could make Swiss cheese out of some punk-ass wilding gang looking to jack some weak Asian woman.
The shooting club was managed by Alvin Lin, a thirtyish ABC—American-born Chinese—who was even more jook sing, empty piece of bamboo, than Jack. He was a real Chinese cowboy.