“Three something, close to four o’clock.” Gong clenched and unclenched his fists, heartbreak working its way out despite his arthritis. “I asked where he was going som gong boon yeh, in the middle of the night? ‘For a walk,’ he said. ‘It’s freezing,’ I told him. But he said he needed the air. I waited half an hour, then I called his sau gay, cell phone, but got no answer. Then I went to look for him.”
“Why didn’t you call the police then?” quizzed Jack.
“And tell them what? I never thought something like this might happen.”
“So you went to her place?”
“I went to the singing club first, but it was already closed. Then I went to Doyers Street. I called his cell phone again, from the hallway. I could hear his ringtone from inside but it just kept ringing. I have a key, and let myself in.” He began to tremble and nervously massaged his twisted fingers.
“Ah Gong called me at about five AM,” interjected Fong. “I drove in from New Jersey. Almost an hour and a half, sitting in traffic. I didn’t know the rush hour started so early. I wanted to jump from the car and run to Chinatown.”
“I saw the bodies,” Gong continued. “I knew they were dead. But I couldn’t stay inside. I could feel their gwai— ghosts—in there. I felt I might go insane so I went into the hallway. I called the association’s secretary and asked him to call the police, to ask for you, lo Yu.”
“Who did he call, exactly?” asked Jack.
“I don’t know. He said he would take care of it.”
Jack took a breath and rose off the stool slowly, looking toward the dim daylight streaming in through the dirty picture windows. He’d have to go to the station house, see what the captain had on this.
Gong said, “We need to be strong.”
Fong agreed. “For the two families to survive. The women will become hysterical.”
“You haven’t told them?” Jack asked, quietly stunned.
“We are … preparing to … tell them. It isn’t natural, you see. How do we go on now?”
“Jing deng,” Gong said fatalistically. “It’s destiny.”
The Chinese, Jack knew, attributed acts of incomprehensible evil to destiny, jing deng, believing that things were meant to be, that there was nothing they could have done to prevent it. Self-absolution.
“Detective,” Fong said, “we hope we can depend on your discretion. In case of gossip, or rumors.”
“Rumors?” Jack lifted an eyebrow. “Like what?”
“Someone may say she was a hostess, a siu jeer, in the ka-la-ok. But she was a manager,” Fong insisted, “not a hostess. The newspapers, you know they like to make up stories.”
“There should not be any more shame attached to this story,” Gong added.
“I understand,” Jack said. Finally, there it was again, the reason for Jack being here: the ever-present Chinese concern about saving face, about the loss of face, fear of scandalous speculation, dishonor to their children, to their families, to themselves.
The fathers stood up, steeling themselves for the grim task ahead, delivering the tragic news to their families, each old man barely able to contain his heartbreak.
Jack wrote down their phone numbers.
“I may need you to come down to the station house later.”
“We have to make the funeral arrangements. We will be in Chinatown.”
It was 7:45 AM when Jack stepped back into the raw cold daylight of the Bowery, heading south toward Elizabeth Alley and the Fifth Precinct station house. Along the way, he stopped at Me Lee Snack and got a steaming cup of nai cha, tea with milk, watching the patrol cars roll in and out of Elizabeth Alley, hoping that the captain was an early bird and had already arrived.
The 0-Five house was the oldest in the city, a run-down Federalist brick-front walk-up built in 1881, just before the Chinese Exclusion Acts, when the area was known as the notorious Five Points, home to mostly Irish and Italians and a scattering of other European ethnicities.
Jack remembered the beat-up metal desk in the second-floor squad room where he’d worked the Uncle Four murder, and later, the Ghost Legion shoot-out.
Both cases were still open, investigations continuing.
Captain Salvatore “Big Sal” Marino was the CO, commanding officer of the Fifth Precinct. Jack remembered well all five months of the troublesome tour he’d previously served under Marino, during which more things went wrong than right.
In spite of that, Jack had gotten the job done, and the captain had personally quashed a subsequent Internal Affairs investigation. Later, Marino had quietly pushed for Jack’s promotion to Detective Second Grade.
In his stuffy office, the captain stood beside his big wooden desk, nodding his white-haired head as he said, “Homicide-suicide, open and shut. That’s what the watch sarge said.”
“Looks that way,” agreed Jack. “The ME’s got them now.”
“When they’re done, wrap it up. You can use your old desk in the squad room.”
Great, thought Jack sardonically, thanks a lot.
The captain gave Jack a puzzled look, grinned, then said, “You’re wondering why you, hah? It’s not like we didn’t have homicide cops available, right?” He straightened up from the desk, let his bulk loom toward Jack, and spoke in a confessional tone. “The call came down from Manhattan South.” He took a breath. “A PBA rep phoned the night watch. Then an accommodation came down the chain, capisce? They need a Chinese cop? Sure, why not? This group, wassit? The Nom San? Made a generous donation to the Widows and Orphans Fund last year. Some of their members are auxiliaries, volunteer police. So why not? They’re good fellas, right?” He put a hammy hand on Jack’s shoulder, saying, “So here you are.”
And here I am, thought Jack. Back in the ’hood.
“It’s not the usual procedure,” Marino continued. “But if the community feels a Chinese detective might be more sensitive to the investigation, I’m inclined to be accommodating.”
Jack mused, Always alert to an opportunity for some good PR. Of course the precinct was ready to cooperate with the skeptical community, especially for street information relating to the safety (gangs and guns) and security (extortion and gambling, drugs and prostitution) of the people of Chinatown. Always ready. CPR. Courtesy, Professionalism, Respect.
“Accommodating is good,” Jack agreed, fighting off a sneer.
“Exactly. Survivors don’t want bullshit finding its way into the newspapers.” He paused. “Especially with the Chinese press being what it is.”
“How’s that, Captain?” Jack asked, sensing racism. Jack remembered Vincent Chin, editor of the United National, Chinatown’s oldest newspaper. Vincent had assisted Jack in past investigations.
“Look, just be sensitive, hah?” Marino warned. “Obviously, they didn’t want to talk to a gwailo, a white cop.”
Sensitivity, Jack thought, was like diversity, affirmative action, and equal opportunity: convenient catchwords that people in command used to cover their asses.
“You work the paperwork any way you want,” Marino advised. “But I’m gonna be reading in between the lines. And you better be sure everything’s straight, by the book. You get my drift?”
“Right, Captain,” Jack answered. “I’ll keep you posted.”
“Do that,” the big man said, checking his watch. “And stay in the neighborhood. ADA Sing’s coming by at nine thirty.”
Jack knew that prosecutor Bang Sing, a rising young star in the DA’s office, was also a friend of Alexandra’s.
“You’ll need his updates on the Johnny Wong case,” said Marino, tilting his head dismissively toward the open door.
“Nine thirty, yes sir,” acknowledged Jack. There was an hour and a half in between.
Jack went right on Bayard, left on Mott, thinking of Billy Bow and the Tofu King, which was across the street from the Golden Galaxy club where May Lon Fong had worked. He continued past the dingy storefronts of his childhood, toward the billowing cloud of steam that rushed forth every time a customer exited the Tofu King. It had once been Chinatown’s biggest tofu distributor, but in recent decades, it had seen its fortunes decline in the face of cutthroat competition and rising costs. The Bows had resorted to promotional gimmicks to stem their loss of market share. Half-price early-bird deals for senior citizens. Leftover “value packs” after 6 PM. Three generations of a longtime Chinatown family, the Bows were hanging on against fierce Fukienese competition from East Broadway and the growth of the health-foods industry.