The other girl was darker, ethnic Chinese from Southeast Asia, he’d guessed. Malaysia, Indonesia—he couldn’t tell which. Dark, silver-dollar nipples. Also short, barely five foot two, but with curves everywhere on her: a firm, virginal, country-girl body.

She’d been wearing a schoolgirl’s uniform, with a white see-through bra and a split-thong underneath.

He unbuckled his belt. Unzipped his fly.

Naked, she sat on the rear edge of his bed, with the other siu jeer behind her, and raised one leg, leaning back on her hands. Gee Sin stepped up to the bed, took a breath, sucking in the hom sup salty scent of the sex flesh splayed before him.

“Gway day,” he said softly to the dark-skinned one, kneel, just before he let his trousers drop.

She knelt down on the beige carpeting, slowly reaching for him as he leaned over the bed. He was bracing himself on his spread fingers, his attention turning to the one on his bed.

He was mesmerized by the hairless vulva, yum bo, fleshy labia, yum soon, cutaneous folds spreading toward soon hut, the hooded little pearl. Devouring the glistening pudendum with his lustful eyes.

He lowered his head, close enough that he could smell the sweet muskiness emanating from her.

She kept her eyes on him and slowly arched her back.

The one on her knees had tugged down his shorts and taken hold of him in her hands, caressing the swelling look go, tube of flesh. He noticed the faint mound of downy hair just above the hooded lips, the mons, below nymphae nestled there.

He dry-swallowed, marveling at the bo, orifice, beckoning to him, an old man in his twilight, drinking at the fountain of youth. It made him feel like a young man again, when he had two good hands, and touching a woman brought a lusty tingle to his fingertips.

The siu jeer on the carpet cradled his swollen gwun against her cheek, strummed her fingers across the taut balls beneath it.

He’d lost his bearings.

His legs began to tremble as he bent close enough to blow gently on the bo pearl, to gasp a hot breath onto it. He was caught in its spell. The tip of his tongue would make it hard, bring it to attention. Precious, bo. Worshipping at the orifice of precious pudendum. Labia. Yum soon.

Licking his lips in anticipation.

South

South Andover ran between two sets of railroad tracks, trapped inside the industrial spread and the freeway beyond, a beat-down neighborhood.

Number 44 was one of a forsaken inner-city string of row houses that’d fallen into disrepair. Now it was a rooming house for migrant workers, makeshift quarters, beds for rent in squalid conditions. It reminded Jack of the Fukienese crash pads along East Broadway where modern-day worker-coolies were stacked on top of one another in basements and tenement apartments.

Jack knocked on the door until someone answered, opening up cautiously to a shadowy interior of whispers and furtive faces.

“Si, que quiere?” asked a young face creased with wrinkles.

Jack showed his badge, said “Policia de Nueva York. No inmigracion.” Jack assured him, “No problema. I only have some questions for Carlos Lima. And Jorge Villa.”

There was a silence as the door opened wider and another Mexican man stepped forward. “Si,” he said. “Soy Jorge.”

“Jorge,” Jack began, “you sold two watches that were stolen—”

“No, no, senor,” interrupted Jorge. “I no stealin nossing, please.”

“I don’t care about the watches,” Jack insisted.

“No me. Fue el chino bajo,” Jorge said. “Chino malo, el chaparrito.”

Bajo, remembered Jack. Short, short Chinese. Eddie was fronting the watches? “Where?” Jack asked. “Donde?”

“No say. He calling, telefono, only.”

“Where did you meet him?” Jack scanned the dim hushed room. “And where is Carlos Lima?”

Comida Mexicana

Jack brought Jorge along and they followed the freeway back north to Holgate until they came to a fast-food restaurant next to a Metro bus stop. El Amigo offered a counter with stools and four small tables inside an old-time diner. There was an oven and grill setup with a microwave on one side, then a big steam table with pots of beans, sides, and assorted ingredients.

El Amigo served pozole, lengua, and tacos ten ways, with a full menu of burritos, tortillas, enchiladas, fajitas. Flan and sopaipillas for dessert. TAKEOUT ORDERS, DELIVERY FREE.

The place was empty this mid-afternoon, except for the grill cook. The savory aromas that wafted into the cold air pulled them inside.

“Carlos,” Jorge said to the cook. “Policia.”

A look of fear crossed Carlos’s face before Jack assured him, “No problema, bro.”

Jack showed him Eddie’s juvenile offender photograph.

Carlos paused, taking a good look at Jack before he spoke. “Chaparrito,” he said, referring to the photo. “He say hees work for hees oncle, jewree.” Carlos pointed to the Mexican ring on his finger, to the matching chain and medallion around his neck.

Jewelry store. Jack listened, knew it was Eddie running a story.

“He say beesnees no esta bueno, esta cerrado,” Carlos continued. “Hees oncle pays him con los relojes. Entiende? ” He tapped his finger on the knockoff Cartier tank on his wrist. “El chino bajo, he say we help him selling dem, then he geev us twenny dollar for one.”

“You get a twenty-dollar commission?” asked Jack.

“Si. He make up story for los gringos. Me and Jorge, we no stealing nossing.”

Jack took a moment to piece it together in his mind. They had sold the Movados to the pawnshops near the railroad yards and on Spokane because those places were closest to their immigrant rooming house on South Andover. Or had bajo chaparrito—Eddie—planned to steer clear of the upscale tourist destinations? Instead keeping to the low-rent areas, and drawing less attention? A heavyset man wearing a polo shirt came out of a back room, saw Jack, and asked, “Si? Hay un problema?”

“No problema,” Jack answered. “You’re the owner?”

“Si, and these are my best workers. And I know they never steal anything.”

“I’m not after them,” Jack insisted. “I’m only asking them about their Chinese amigo, who they said they met here.”

“Chinese?” he paused, puzzled, glancing from Jorge to Carlos. “You mean Koo Lung?”

Koo? thought Jack, recalling Koo Jai, Eddie’s victim in New York. “Who’s Koo Lung?” He showed the juvie photo, and asked, “He look something like this? Very short?”

“Chino chaparrito,” the man said, nodding. “He worked here for one week.”

“Why? What happened?” quizzed Jack.

“He saw the sign for dishwasher job in the window. But I also made him clean out the basement and paint the back room. And he didn’t like to make deliveries.”

Working him like a coolie, thought Jack.

“Too much work, he said. He wanted to be dishwasher only, so he quit.”

“Dishwasher only?”

“We say dishwasher,” the man said with a chuckle, “but really it’s garbage worker. And includes fix-up work, dirty work. Carlos and Jorge are good cooks, best in Puebla. Six days on, one day off. They don’t have time for the dirty work. Or deliveries.”

“This Koo Lung,” Jack asked. “You have any paperwork on him?”

“Only the job application. It’s just a formality.”

“Por favor,” Jack said. “I need to see it.”

The job application form listed the applicant as KOO K.LEUNG. There was an address in Central Seattle with a telephone number. Attached was a copy of a membership card from ASIAN VIPs NYC; Jack guessed it was a hostess club. Eddie had ripped off his victim Koo Jai’s card and used it as ID.