He didn’t see any obvious traces of struggle or blood evidence.

He stayed there almost half an hour, trying to sort it out. Sing, the Chinese orphan from Poon Yew village, was a “paper man” who had followed a trail of established immigrant communities eastward across Canada to New York City. He came to America looking for a new future but found instead a length of steel dagger through the heart somewhere on these cold-blooded streets of the South Bronx.

Jack knew that it wasn’t a random, or thrill, kill. Someone had worked it out, played the whole con, followed the hit list, and tried to wash it. Someone with a purpose, a mission. Someone who’d picked the location and set up the exchange at nighttime, when it was dark and the tide was high.

Someone who knows the area.

If it was just a gambling debt, then the suspicion fell on Fay Lo and the Ghosts. The Ghosts were capable of it, for sure, but it didn’t seem like their style. The Ghosts were ruthless and calculated and would have simply snatched Sing off the street and left his body in a barrel somewhere. Not some bogus abalone-and-cigarette setup in the South Bronx.

He knew if he poked Fay Lo, he’d probably lawyer up and charge police harassment. He wasn’t expecting to get a straight answer out of the Fat Man anyway.

If they were trying to make an example of Sing, why dispose of his body in the river? The street face of it asked, Who collects from a dead man? Gamblers are scared off. It’s bad luck, and there’s a death stain on the gambling establishment.

Jack remembered Sun Tzu’s advice to strike where your opponent is weakest, and thought about gau jai—Ghost Doggie Boy—probably recovering somewhere in one of the Ghost crash pads in Chinatown.

IF IT WAS more than a gambling debt, then maybe the bad blood between Sing and Bossy Gee’s restaurants figured in his murder. Was it something he said? Something that caused one of the restaurant managers to lose face? Angry words worth dying for?

Jack had no clue. Or rather, he had a lot of clues that didn’t make sense. Like Ah Por’s words, Money is the root of all evil.

He considered the Mexicans. Luis, Ruben, and Miguel struck him as hardworking, willing to take on dirty, low-paying jobs. In many ways, the mox-say-gos were the new Chinese coolies, facing the same racist discrimination that the Chinese of earlier generations suffered. Jack could understand the reluctance to notify law enforcement. Immigrants filing police reports on other immigrants? Not likely, thought Jack, when they couldn’t even be sure of each other’s names and identities.

Nobody else ventured down the streets during the time he stayed in the pocket park. No vehicle drove by. He knew he’d have to return in daylight and check out the area again.

Daylight

IT HAD STARTED to snow, the flurries sticking to the dirt surfaces of the pocket park. Everything looked uglier in daylight, desolate and cold. Daylight alone didn’t reveal any secrets. The pocket park was as deserted in daytime as it was at night.

There was no evidence mixed in with the litter that the wind had swept down from the avenue. No signs of a struggle. No telltale footprints or tire marks or bloodstains like cops always found on TV shows.

No wallet, no pack of cigarettes or lighter or scattered cans of abalone. Nothing but river debris and detritus left behind by the low tide. It’d been two nights since the Mexicans last saw Sing, and any evidence, if there’d been any, could have already washed off or blown away.

He’d have to find his clues elsewhere, and he decided to take the subway down to the Ninth Precinct, where the computer system was more updated than the Fifth’s antiquated setup.

Back to the Future

His cell phone jangled as he arrived at the Ninth, signaling a voice mail that he’d missed while he was underground in the subway. He didn’t recognize the number, but the message was from Alexandra, explaining that she’d be out of touch for a few days.

“Situation” was the word she used, and he understood that to mean something related to her ongoing divorce battle. The message had a tense, awkward undertone to it and ended with a curt “Call you when I get back.”

When he got to the detectives’ area, there were two messages with his name on them. The first one was a reminder to reschedule his appointment with the department-assigned shrink. The second was from the captain, waiting for a progress report on the John Doe now turned homicide.

Jack fired up the detectives’ desktop unit and accessed the crime-file database under “Illegal Gambling and Organized Crime.” The information was listed by precinct, and under Chinatown’s “Fifth Precinct,” he found an array of Chinese mug shots; mostly older men he didn’t recognize but knew were designated sacrificial lambs whenever the vice cops were pressured to conduct a gambling raid.

Among the mug shots was an old one of Fai “Fay Lo” Yung, identified as a Chinatown businessman and associate of the On Yee tong. He had to be pushing fifty. Eleven arrests over eight years, all of them lawyered out. A homely man, he had a round head and a thick neck, and even though it was only a headshot, Jack could see why they’d nicknamed him Fay Lo for “fat man.” All the old gambling raps on his sheet were from different locations in Chinatown, but nothing over the last five years. It was like he went underground and disappeared.

Judging from the operation in the South Bronx, Fay Lo had come a long way and had learned a thing or two about organized illegal gambling. But he was still an old-timer, from the old school that didn’t believe in executing its delinquent losers. Dead men don’t pay. They believed in making their welshers “work off” their debts by laboring for construction crews doing the nastiest jobs, or by stealing, or muling some China white or bootleg cigarettes across state lines.

The Ghosts killing Sing on their own? A single stab through the heart? Unlikely.

It didn’t make sense.

BY THE TIME he updated the report for the captain, the winter afternoon outside looked like evening, dark already at 5 P.M. He stood up from the desk and stretched his legs, changing his stances from tiger to horse to long bridge squat, popping tendons and ligaments as he considered how the clues had come his way.

A cremation and a lady in red who sold cherries on a frozen street corner.

A tres amigos of Mexican laborers who’d pointed the way. But not the why.

Something personal? Or simple, like a gambling debt?

The motive escaped Jack. He planned to make more phone calls and considered enlisting Billy’s help again. Although the leads had taken him in different directions, as he’d discovered on previous investigations, all roads inevitably led back to Chinatown.

Fish

JACK FOUND BILLY at Grampa’s, trying to convince the part-time barmaid to visit his apartment after her shift. He complained as Jack guided him into one of the booths.

“Why is it every time I’m feeling lucky, you come along and drag me away from happiness?”

“That’s not happiness, that’s just sex,” Jack said with a grin. “She’s already wise to your game anyway.”

“Well, sure, after you just cock-blocked me, whaddya expect?”

“I need your help, Billy,” Jack said.

“Whoa, where have I heard that before? This is where you promise not to cum in my mouth, right?” Billy leaned back and gave Jack enough face to play out his rope. When Jack finished explaining, Billy barked, “WHAT? I hate those punk-ass Ghosts! And you want me to go down to their gambling basements?”

“Not for gambling, Billy. I want you to check it out,” explained Jack. He showed him the hospital photo of Ghost Doggie Boy. “For anybody who looks like this.”