As an association, the Nom San wasn’t a big deal, nothing like the Lee Association, or the merchants groups; it had only a couple of hundred members. Jack remembered the Nom San’s annual banquets at Port Arthur, a big old-world Chinese restaurant where the kids could play hide-and-seek behind the ornate carved wood panels and banquettes, the tables, and the countertops inlaid with mother of pearl. Chinatown restaurants were now all slick shiny glass and chrome, reflecting the Hong Kong influence, thought Jack. He remembered visiting the association as a child, when Pa, unable to find a babysitter, had brought him along to meetings.
The Nom San building was a five-story walk-up with a rusty redbrick front. Twin flagpoles flew the red, white, and blue banners of both the United States and the Republic of China. Recently, they had rented out the top floor, and had moved the association’s meeting hall down to the second floor, above the Fung Wang Restaurant, so that the elders wouldn’t have to climb the five flights of stairs to attend a meeting. Outside, there was a red plastic sign, framed in a metallic gold, with shiny yellow letters spelling out the association’s name: NOM SAN BOK HOY BENEVOLENT ASSOCIATION. Jack pressed the dusty button at the wire-grated glass door. He was buzzed in immediately, and while ascending the steps, he felt as if they’d been waiting, anticipating his arrival.
6:55 AM
At the top of the stairs, he was buzzed in again as he reached for the handle of a gray metal door. Inside was a long open room with bench seating against the side walls. They were sitting at a dark wood table at the far end: two old men he didn’t recognize, hunched over, staring into the mahogany surface over clasped hands, as if they were praying. Behind them, against the short back wall, was an old range top, a steaming pot of tea, and a slop sink setup typical of Chinatown in Pa’s day. There were racks of folding chairs and tables. A tiny bathroom in the right corner was squeezed in next to a fire-escape exit. Along both long walls, hung on coat pegs above the benches, were folded tray tables. Members had always been welcome to sit and eat their takeout, hop jaai faahn, box meals. Displayed higher up on the walls were ancestral plaques and old black-and-white portraits of the village forefathers.
Everything looked flat and sickly under the two rows of fluorescent ceiling lights. The men were both sixtyish, balding. As Jack approached, they raised their frowning faces to him. Their baggy winter clothes and their choked-back grief made them look similar, like relatives, joined by tragedy.
The silence was broken by the rumbling complaint of tractor trailers on the street outside, big trucks navigating the bouncing length of Canal Street, heading toward the Holland Tunnel.
Jack pulled a stool up to the table and sat, showing the gold detective’s badge at his waist. He smelled camphor, the scent of mon gum yao, tiger balm, and bok fa yao, minty oil. The old men had resorted to herbal liniments to help fight off their looming nausea and despair.
The more haggard of the two spoke first. “We appreciate your help,” he said. “Ah Gong here remembered your father, Sing gor.”
The other man said, “We asked for you because a tong yen, Chinese, would be more understanding … that this is the saddest day of our lives.”
“I respect that,” Jack answered. “Who called me?”
“I am lo Gong,” said the second man. “My son … is the dead man. I got your telephone number from the police card that your father had left here.”
Jack remembered. He believed that Pa, in his disdain and anger over his son becoming a running dog cop, had discarded his NYPD detective’s card. So this murder-suicide case had come his way through his dead father’s actions.
Gong removed a driver’s license from his wallet, handing it over to Jack.
“Ah jai,” he whispered. “My son.”
“This is against nature,” Fong said. “We are not meant to survive our children.”
Jack nodded quietly in agreement. Bitterness and anger choked their voices, two old heads shaking in disbelief: How can this be? Their eyes searched desperately in the middle distance for answers.
The license was expired, but recent enough. The male shooter had been Harry Gong, thirty-four years old, five feet nine inches in height. He had an address at Grand Street, toward the northern edge of Chinatown.
He looked more like a student than a gangbanger.
There was a pronounced silence in the empty meeting hall, then each of the fathers spoke in turn, spilling out the story of how he reached this … end of the world.
“They’d been together five years. Husband and wife,” said Gong.
“They have two young children. Two and three years old,” added Fong.
“A happy family …”
Jack took a deep shaolin boxer’s breath through his nose. He hated cases where children were involved; those situations gouged at his toughness, fractured the hard shell he’d built around his cop’s heart.
He let the men continue in their odd Chinese cadence.
“Then they separated, this year.”
“She had a depression. The kind young mothers get.”
“He was afraid for the children.”
“They had bruises.”
“She moved back to her old studio apartment.”
“He hoped the situation would get better.”
“Then she got a job in a bakery.”
“After a few months, she asked for a separation.”
“And he agreed, reluctantly.”
Neither man had shed a tear but Jack could sense the sadness and anger just beneath the grim masks of their faces.
“She seemed better, and visited the children.”
“The doctor at the clinic said these things take time.”
“My son continued working long hours. Kay toy, waiting tables. At the Wong Sing. He was even more stressed, more nervous than before.”
“Our wives and cousins took care of the children.”
They paused as if to catch their breaths, Jack sensing the darkening of their tale.
“My daughter changed jobs, worked in a karaoke club. Fewer hours and more money.”
“My son found out. He didn’t like her working until four in the morning. It wasn’t a job for a woman her age.”
“She refused to quit.”
“He felt he’d lost face. One day he was angry, the next day sad.”
“But she said the money was good. And the job was like freedom. It made her feel better about herself.”
“But he couldn’t accept the idea of the club. Drinking and singing all night. The kind of people who went there …”
“She denied any involvements. She said she was only saving for her future and the children’s future.”
“They had a big argument.”
“Several weeks ago.”
“He begged her to quit.”
“But she refused again.”
“Did he threaten her?” Jack interrupted.
“It wasn’t his nature,” Gong answered.
“He kept it all inside,” from Fong.
“Did they get help? Seek counseling?” Jack asked.
“They’re both grown-ups, both thirty-something years old.”
“We felt they would work it out.”
“And you never saw this coming?” Jack challenged.
Both men shook their heads. No, no never, was followed by uneasy silence.
Seizing the moment, Jack slipped in a question, catching them off guard. “Where did he get the gun?”
Another dead pause, then both men answered in unison, “We don’t know.”
Jack let the moment drift, looking for some effect, but was met with only their gnarled stone faces.
“I didn’t see any sign of forced entry,” Jack offered.
“He had a key,” Fong said.
“From when they were dating,” added Gong.
He was waiting for her, Jack remembered thinking.
“What brought you to the scene?” he asked Gong.
“I’ve had trouble sleeping,” Gong answered. “So I was in the kitchen when my son left the apartment.”
“What time was this?”