Littman smirked. Time served.

To the captain, it seemed like ADA Bang Sing flinched at the thought of being accused of wasting taxpayers’ money on a bad case. A politician’s awareness. Marino knew they’d have to advise Jack, and would need to temper the decision to fold against the good job he’d otherwise done in Seattle.

Lucky to Be Alive?

At Downtown Hospital, it was just another frigid and gloomy New York City morning, with the EMS techs bringing in the frostbitten or frozen-dead homeless and the elderly. New immigrants with ashen faces waited patiently in the ER.

Jack wore his badge and cut straight to the CCU curtained-off space that was Lucky’s room. The darkness of the morning had tricked Jack, and he half-expected to see the overnight nurse.

The life-support machine pumped rhythmically in Lucky’s space, background sound for the electronic ping of the electrodes measuring his heartbeats. His cheeks had hollowed, sunken. How many more weeks before he’d become skeletal? wondered Jack grimly. He doubted Lucky had had any kind of health insurance, so the On Yee, who sponsored the Ghosts, were probably paying for the machine. They must believe that Lucky knows something, Jack surmised, secrets valuable enough for them to keep him alive.

“How much longer can this go on?” he heard himself say. When would the On Yee determine that Lucky was no longer important?

The resident neurologist had warned Jack against great expectations. “Even if he comes to, he’ll likely have some brain damage.”

Would he have forgotten the Ghosts? Or their secrets and memories of their childhood in Chinatown? Jack remembered their younger days, dashing across the black-tarred rooftops to their hiding places, and their childish hopes. Jack wanted to tell Lucky that he’d caught the punk who’d put the .22 slug in his brain, and wished Lucky could have understood the stupidity of dying over some stolen watches.

Unsure of what he was hoping to get from the motionless body, Jack left Lucky and turned his thoughts back to the Fifth Precinct.

Good News, Bad News

The office was open and the captain motioned Jack in before he could rap on the door.

“Welcome back, Jack,” Marino began. “I want you to know I’ve put you in for another commendation. The chief thinks you did a good job bringing Eddie Ng back, and the DA’s office thinks it’s a solid case.” He paused for effect. “You can put in for those days at regular pay but the department won’t pay for airfare, hotel, or anything else.”

Jack responded with a smile and a knowing nod as the captain handed him a fax sheet.

“This came in from Seattle headquarters, from a Detective Nicoll.”

The fax confirmed that the blood workup was a match, that the blood on the bionic hand matched the blood found on the abandoned boat near Harbor Island and also on the fragment of the broken jade bangle. The report also noted scorch marks across the palm and fingers where the red bangle was grasped.

Jack felt the urge to visit Ah Por.

“I need to see all that in a report,” indicated the captain. “It moves the case forward, no?”

Jack nodded. “Yes sir, let’s see what else comes up.”

But no missing females had floated up. And no one had claimed a missing hand. Could it be Paper Fan’s? Or one of the other thugs?

“By the way,” Marino advised, “ADA Sing’s coming in.”

It sounded vaguely like a warning.

A minute later there was a rap on the door frame and Bang Sing entered. Jack stood to one side of Marino’s desk and exchanged nods with the assistant district attorney.

Sing, with his Chow Yun-Fat good looks, measured his words carefully.

“I got some bad news, and then worse news,” he said. This seemed directed at Jack, who noticed Sing pausing to take a breath, like a candidate about to deliver his speech.

“Eddie Ng has retracted his confession,” Sing said. “He’s now claiming that you coerced him, by making promises and threats. He alleges that you told him you’d let him be the Seattle jailhouse bitch if he didn’t go along with the confession. That you’d let skinheads fuck him in the ass. He said that you were harder on him because he was Chinese.”

“So much bullshit,” groused Jack. “And you buy that crap?”

“It’s just a delaying tactic. All the evidence will hang him,” Sing said confidently. “Once you testify about the murder weapon and the matching ballistics, and the stolen watches he was caught with, he’s done. The vic’s prints are on the watch bag.”

“The scheming little bastard,” cursed Jack.

“Yeah, he might get a few Chinese or Asians on the jury but that cuts both ways. We’ll nail him good, anyway. You did a great job.”

So why doesn’t it feel that way? thought Jack. Barely placated, he hissed, “So what’s the worse news?”

Sing took another breath, and avoided eye contact with Jack.

“The Johnny Wong deal. We’re going to accept a plea.” Sing glanced toward the captain. “Illegal possession of a weapon, and reckless endangerment.”

“You shitting me?” asked Jack incredulously.

Marino shook his gray-haired head, frowning.

“What’s he get for that?” challenged Jack.

“Time served.”

Jack grimaced, trying to contain his exasperation.

“I can’t put you on the stand, Jack,” Sing said apologetically. “I’m sorry. But you’d kill your own case. Plus, and I don’t know how Alexandra got involved in all this, but she’s a witness here as well. And you killed Littman’s assistant? Trying to prevent a kidnapping? Of a missing woman who might be pivotal to the case? Shelly will kill you on cross.”

Jack felt his heart sink, angry to hear the names Shelly and Alexandra in the same conversation.

“It’s not your fault, Jack,” offered Sing. “It’s just how it happened. Maybe it was destiny. This woman, she played you as good as she played Johnny the chump. Everything’s tainted. We have to cut our losses.”

He wondered again about how Bang Sing might be connected to Alex, and felt uncomfortable in the stuffy overheated room. The captain’s phone rang and Jack left the office without another word, never looking back.

He was cutting his losses.

Pain and Suffering

He found Ah Por in the Senior Center, at a small card table with a group of other old women, gray wizened elders playing sup som jeung, thirteen-card Chinese poker.

Ah Por showed her hand and cackled victoriously.

Jack caught her eye, offered a slight bow and a small smile. He had the shuriken and the snapshot of the bionic hand ready, along with two folded five-dollar bills. In his pocket he cradled the curved fragment of the red jade bangle he’d extracted from the grasp of the fake hand.

Ah Por backed her chair to the wall and allowed another wrinkled old woman to take her place. She looked at Jack, seeing his father in the face of the son, a man now.

“Your father was a good man,” she said. “He was honorable.” Sure, thought Jack, but that wasn’t what he was hoping to hear.

“Your shoulder is hurt,” she said, eyes brightening as he recalled the bruise from the nunchakus. Ah Por always seemed to know about his wounds. “Your heart is heavy,” she added. “But you have brought justice to two evil men.”

Did she mean the two he’d shot dead? wondered Jack. Or did she mean Short Eddie or Paper Fan? He palmed one of the folded fives into her gnarled hand, carefully handed her the shuriken. She handled it gingerly, and looked at it closely for a few seconds.

“Sharp,” she observed, “but no longer deadly. It belongs to a Hip Ching.”

Not surprised, Jack exchanged the photo of the hand for the throwing star, palmed her the other five, and leaned in closer. She rubbed her fingers over the snapshot, taking several deep breaths.