The fan tan croupier swept away his dollars, and Jack bet the box again, feigning attention this time. He could see how “Singarette” Chang, like other workingmen with dreams, could be sucked into the fake glamour of the gambling life. With a little luck, you could build up a bundle, but if you were unlucky, if the cards were flipped against you, then you could wind up with a ton of debt and heartache. Then the gang boys and the loan sharks would circle you in a frenzy.

He lost three straight fan tan games and took his remaining money to the roulette table. He bet the action groups and the colors, letting the wheel spin under the bouncing white ball while he continued to scan the room. While he was winning on red, a whoop and holler jumped out of Billy, which caught the Ghosts’ attention.

Jack watched them size Billy up. No trouble, Billy, echoed in his mind. Scooping up his winnings, he moved next to Billy, hoping the Ghosts would let it pass. Giving him the eye-fuck nod, Jack said, “Let’s roll. You got people peeping you now. I got the scene already, and there’s nothing left but trouble.” It’s not like I got a warrant or anything, but I got a peep of the guy’s life in the months before he got himself killed.

“And I still got a funeral in the morning,” he spat out, steely when Billy hesitated, scanning the room.

“Okay, chill,” Billy acknowledged, spotting the Ghosts. “But I was on a winning streak.”

“Me too,” Jack lamented. “Me too.”

“We the two sorriest winners ever had to leave a place because motherfuckers paying too much attention to us.”

They exited Fay Lo’s back alley with the baleful glare of the door goon following them.

They doubled back to the corner where Billy had parked the car.

Stinkin’ Badges

JACK SAW IT in the flash of surprise and fear that crossed Billy’s face. Turning, he reached for his Colt as two men appeared from the shadows near the Mustang. One black guy, one white, wearing ghetto street gear and approaching with swagger in a way that he couldn’t see their hands.

Guns cleared holsters simultaneously as Jack and the men barked in unison.

“POLICE!”

“DROP YOUR WEAPON!”

The yelling froze them all with guns pointed in a standoff, hard faces not backing down but recognizing the same cop language.

Billy leaned away from Jack and kept his Beretta trained on the black man.

“Lower your weapon!” the white one demanded.

“You lower your weapon!” Jack responded. He sensed nervous fingers on triggers.

“Whoa, hold up!” the black one eased. “We’re cops!”

“I know I am,” Jack challenged. “Where’s your shield?”

“Where’s yours?” the white one shot back.

There was a moment’s silence until Jack said, “Okay, easy does it. Show you mine. You show me yours.” He slowly flapped open his jacket with his free hand, letting his gold badge glint in the night light.

The black man unzipped his Raiders sweatshirt so Jack could see the silver badge dangling off a beaded chain.

“What precinct?” Jack asked tensely.

“The Four-One, Bronx,” the white man answered, pulling open his jacket to expose his own shield. “You?”

“Manhattan South,” Jack answered, like the designation had more weight than the Ninth or the Fifth Precincts.

The men lowered their guns cautiously, except Billy.

“Put it away,” Jack growled. Billy reluctantly complied, and the cops holstered their weapons as well.

Everyone took a breath.

“Wait, your partner’s badge?” the black cop said.

“He’s a civilian,” Jack explained. “But he’s got a permit.”

Billy smiled and shrugged, showed his New York City license.

“Civilian? You pulled a piece on us?” the black cop complained.

“I’m carrying fat cash, bro. What the fuck? You think I’m just gonna give it up to someone looks like you, in a hoodie, moving at me? You got the wrong Chinaman, nigga.” Billy had said nigga in a tone between street-brother acknowledgment and racist dagger.

The black cop shot Billy a fuck-you look, not liking being addressed that way by a Chink.

“Wait in the car,” Jack told Billy, who stood defiantly for a moment. The way Jack repeated it to him made him back off and get into the Mustang.

“Why’d you pick us?” Jack asked the black cop pointedly.

“Wasn’t you, or your homie,” came the answer. “It was the car.”

Billy’s hoodmobile.

“Tinted windows, chrome wheels,” the white cop added. “All the bad boys roll that way.”

“You didn’t expect two Chinese though?” Jack asked.

“Whatever. It’s the South Bronx. Anything rolls, anything goes.”

“What’re y’all doing around here?” the black cop asked Jack.

“I’m working a homicide. We pulled a body out of the river.”

“Wait a minute,” the white cop said. “Was that the one came over the radio this morning?”

“Right,” Jack answered.

“Two of our uniforms were on the Harbor boat. First on the scene,” the white cop added. “They said it looked like a jumper.”

Jack didn’t comment, said, “I caught a lead. Anyway, you guys got any problems in this sector?”

“Sure, lotsa problems here. Prostitution. Drugs. All the fuckin’ drunks after Yankee games. Whaddya looking for?”

“Anything around these adjacent blocks?” Jack scanned the empty streets.

“Why? You got something happened around here?”

“Not sure,” Jack hedged. “Anything related to robberies, gang activity, or violent crimes?”

“Just punk asses from the projects,” the black cop said, “snatching handbags and chains from the subway. Or beating up white students from the Catholic schools.”

The white cop thought for a moment. “You mean Asian-related incidents, don’t you?”

“Right,” Jack said. “Anything?”

“We don’t keep records that way.”

“Yeah, but you know what I mean,” Jack pushed.

The two undercover cops exchanged glances before the black one answered.

“Matter of fact, a coupla months ago,” he said, smirking, “there was a fight or something just around the block. A truck driver called it in. A Chinese kid got beat up pretty bad. We found him laying in the street. But he claimed he didn’t know who assaulted him, couldn’t press charges.”

Going to settle it himself? wondered Jack.

“There were a few Chinese on the street,” he continued, “but nobody witnessed anything.”

“How was it called in?” Jack asked. “Did the truck driver describe the fighters?”

The white cop hesitated before answering. “He said a bunch of Chinks were kung fu fighting.”

They all turned as Billy fired up the Mustang, keeping the lights off.

Jack’s face twisted from a sad smile to a frown as he asked, “What else?”

“Some of the kid’s friends came by, said they’d take him to Bronx Medical.”

“You get a name?” Jack asked.

“He said some bogus name, Dew Lay or something.”

Dew lay meant “fuck you” in Cantonese, the assault victim blowing off the white gwai lo cop.

“That’s it?” Jack said. “Right. No charges, no case.”

Yeah, just some crazy Chinks kung fu fightin’ on a Saturday night in the Four-One, thought Jack, but he backed his gratitude with a handshake as the two undercovers moved off.

The adrenaline from the armed face-off was draining off now, and he slipped back into the Mustang, watching the plainclothes cops in their unmarked car roll off into the dark Bronx distance. Lucky they were cops, thought Jack, it could have been a trigger-happy nightmare. There had been a spate of shootings of black off-duty cops by white off-duty cops.

“Lucky for them,” Billy said, firing the headlights and driving in the opposite direction. “I woulda iced them if they weren’t cops.”

Exactly, thought Jack. He’d had enough of Billy’s help for one night.