The Town Car was still out.

“Seven to seven, huh?” Jack said. “I’ll be back later.”

HE CONSIDERED RETURNING to the Fifth Precinct but didn’t want anyone reporting his ongoing investigation back to Internal Affairs. He also realized he hadn’t eaten since before getting whacked across the head the night before and decided to buy takeout before dropping by the Tofu King.

Billy was busy managing the afternoon tofu rush, but offered Jack the use of his quiet little office at the back of the shop, where he could enjoy his gnow nom faahn in peace while trying to figure things out.

Jack wolfed down pieces of savory brisket and wondered about Bossy’s driver. Sure, it would have been easy to slip the lobby door lock of number 8 Pell, go up to 3A and cop-rap on the apartment door. But banging on doors didn’t always work in Chinatown, not if people were illegal immigrants or didn’t respect the police, especially yellow police. He didn’t want his person of interest to get nervous, maybe disappear, before he could question him.

The man had worked for Bossy Gee for years. Maybe the family trusted him. Dependable, steady. Maybe he had some insight into the home invasion, about Bossy’s intentions, or about the Gee family indiscretions.

Based on the locations of his traffic violations, Mak Gaw was probably familiar with the Bronx, especially the South Bronx during an overnight illegal U-turn halfway between Booty’s and the possible crime scene at the riverside pocket park in Highbridge. He knows the area after dark.

Jack reviewed the copy of Gaw’s license. At five foot eleven inches tall, he fit part of the medical examiner’s profile of the knife-wielding perp.

Jack finished off the brisket with the rice, measuring the distance from person of interest to suspect. He considered the dark angles of Gaw’s surname.

Gaw sounded the same as gow, or gao, or gau, depending on the dialect and intent of reference. Based on the tone and accent, gaw meant “enough already,” “to rescue,” “a man’s penis” (luk gow), “to teach,” “a dog,” and “old style.”

The phonetics danced in Jack’s mind, teaching a dog in the old style. A lesson in payback?

The other part of his name, Mak, as in lo mok, was the Cantonese equivalent of “nigger.”

Having lived as a single man in Chinatown, Jack had found it convenient to buy takeout food regularly. Most single men didn’t cook and got by on a wide variety of Chinese takeout.

Sooner or later, Gaw will have to come out for food. If he parked during the afternoon, he’d surface around evening. If Gaw returned to the garage late, it’d probably be better to sit on number 8 and wait, Jack figured.

He passed Billy loading buckets of tofu and decided to check Rickshaw Garage again.

“YOU ONLY LEFT a couple of hours ago,” the manager said. He seemed annoyed as he checked the key log again. “It’s still early. Most of the long-term haven’t come back yet.”

Jack could see that Gaw’s Town Car was still out. “I’ll be back,” he repeated.

Outside, the snow had stopped falling, and the afternoon looked like evening. It occurred to him that if for some reason Gaw had parked the car elsewhere, he could very well be in the apartment already.

He left the garage through the Elizabeth Alley exit and went toward the Fifth Precinct down the street. He walked halfway down the block before he saw the undercover Impala he was looking for, the one he’d driven to Fort Lee the day before.

THE SERGEANT AT the duty desk looked like he was happy to be out of the cold. He said, “That old Chevy’s headed for the mechanic’s. Something hinky with the transmission, won’t go over twenty. Can’t catch anyone going twenty.” He paused. “And the heater don’t work.”

“That’s okay, Sarge,” Jack said. “I’m not chasing anyone. And I’m not going far.” Just four blocks and parked on a stakeout.

The sergeant raised his eyebrows, frowned, and blinked before tossing Jack the Impala’s keys. “Knock yerself out, Detective,” he said.

“Thanks, Sarge,” Jack said fraternally, stepping his way out of the Fifth.

JACK FIRED UP the Impala, let it idle a few minutes before he geared it. The Chevy sputtered away from the curb, and he made a right on Canal, another onto Bowery. Two blocks. He took a slow right onto Pell, saw the street was sparsely trafficked, saw a few customers in Half-Ass as he rolled by. He continued past Doyers, pulled the junker halfway onto the sidewalk down from Macao Bar, and killed the engine.

He adjusted the rearview and the driver’s-side mirrors to frame the street, number 8, and Half-Ass. Knowing it could turn out to be a long night’s stakeout, he took a few shaolin breaths and leaned back. He watched the street through the side view.

He knew it would be wise to proceed with caution, remembering getting slugged in the head and knowing that Singarette had been killed by a single knife thrust.

The perp’s got some fighting skills. His gun hand drifted instinctively to the Colt, brushed its solid metal bulk. But I also got .38-caliber kung fu.

The frigid temperatures had kept many people off the streets. Most of the people who came through Pell were taking a shortcut across to Mott, trying to get home. Some were stragglers who drifted to Macao Bar for drinks or to Half-Ass for diner fast foods.

He finished off the cooled container of jai fear and focused on the street. The other businesses were still open despite how deserted the street looked. Shifting to the rearview mirror, he imagined the faces of all the people who’d helped bring his case back to Chinatown: Sing’s co-workers; the tres amigos, Luis, Ruben, and Miguel; Huong the Vietnamese lady in red; lowlifes like Doggie Boy; with inadvertent clues from Bossy Gee himself and from his son Francis “Franky Noodles.” And without Billy Bow’s timely help, Vincent Chin’s research, and even Ah Por’s arcane clues, he’d be at a loss on how to proceed.

He left the car to check for lights on in the top windows of number 8. Two of the windows were lit by fluorescent rings on the ceiling. He couldn’t be sure which was apartment 3A and went back to the Impala.

Two hours had passed before he knew it. Only four people went into number 8 Pell: a grandmother with a grade-school child, a young woman with an infant. No one went in or out of the travel agency or the gift shops.

Flight to Fight

ANOTHER UNEVENTFUL HALF hour went by.

In the rearview, a man turned the corner from Bowery onto Pell, crossed over to Half-Ass, and went inside. Jack rolled down the driver’s-side window to get a better look.

The man came back out.

Tall enough, thought Jack, preparing to exit the Impala. In the mirror he could see the man pull out a pack of cigarettes, shake one out. He lit it and took a deep drag, held it until he hissed out a slow stream of smoke and steam that hung in the frozen air. Apparently waiting for his takeout, he glanced up at the top floors of number 8.

Jack turned and watched him through the rear window as he took another pull off the cigarette. The realization hit Jack like a slap in the face, He’d lit the cigarette with a lighter in his left hand. The mirrors had thrown Jack off. The man now held the cigarette in his left hand. And he now fits the medical examiner’s profile of the killer.

Jack slid out of the Chevy, quietly closing the driver’s door. He walked slowly toward Half-Ass thinking, Brace him quick, watch his hands, and keep at arm’s reach.

The man looked back into Half-Ass like he was checking on his takeout. Jack started crossing over and saw that the man quickly took notice of him. A look of recognition? As Jack got closer, the man started to back away toward Half-Ass, toward the building hallway where Jack had gotten slugged. He resembled the driver’s license photo of Mak Mon Gaw.