Jack knew it wasn’t his call to tell a rookie cop to do the right thing, above and beyond, all that.

But Wong said it for him. “I’m on my own time but I thought I’d give it a look-see before going home. What do you think?”

It wasn’t a homicide call, and Jack knew, in a city where you could get killed for the way you looked at someone, for the colors you wore, or over a parking spot, or an imagined slight, or for just having the bad luck to be in the wrong place at the wrong time, that killer call could hit the precinct at any moment. But at this moment no homicide cases were piling onto his desk, and it being a Chinese thing, Jack knew the house would like to have him involved. Any important calls could be patched to his cell anyway.

“Let’s go over together,” Jack heard himself saying, “to at least get the story straight. Maybe it’s nothing, I wrap it up, and you can go home. One ninety-nine? I’ll meet you there.” He hung up, but remembered he‘d agreed to meet Alexandra for the Christmas Eve Candlelight Service at midnight, an uplifting Mass at the Church of True Light in Chinatown. If anything. . . he’d give her a heads-up.

And there was Billy who’d be hanging out at Grampa’s, ready to partake in some holiday drinking. No worries there.

Happy Family

Jack stepped out of the warm stationhouse into the bracing gusts of wind that whipped in from the East River. He couldn’t help feeling dread; the fear that the frantic call would be serious juiced up his adrenaline.

He blew out a steamy billowing breath, cursed quietly, and began the cold trudge toward East Tenth.

The New Golden Chinatown was a hole-in-the-wall take-out joint near the northern edge of Alphabet City. The snow-covered awning announced Hunan Szechuan Cantonese cuisine and in bold letters EAT IN TAKE OUT.

Crossing the street Jack could see the glaring fluorescent light spilling out, a bright menu board with a series of color shots of food dishes running the length of the ceiling above a pass-through counter area. What you see is what you get.

There was a bicycle chained to the rollgate railing. Jack could tell a place was successful by the number of locked-up bicycles out front. This run-down kitchen was a two-bike operation, nothing big, barely enough take-out deliveries to make ends meet.

He paused at the door and saw a Chinese man and woman talking to P.O. Wong, who was taking notes on a pocket notepad. Jack scanned the operation: pink-tiled walls, some big woks in the dark kitchen at the rear. Two shallow counters that ran along the short side wall and then across the street window. A big garbage bin. There were no chairs and tables so it was clear they didn’t want people hanging around. Eat and go. There was a cashier’s area set off behind greasy panels of bulletproof Plexiglas. You bought your food the same way you’d buy rotgut at a ghetto liquor store, like cashing your paper in a low-rent check-cashing shack.

The woman, in her forties, was animated, and the man, probably also in his forties but looking older, was trying to maintain his control, concern etched onto their tired faces. Jack could see how the grinding restaurant hours had worn them down, years they’d never get back, a generation of sacrifice for their little piece of the American Dream, the Gum San gold mountain dream.

Jack pushed open the fractured glass door and was hit by the smell of grease and salt in the steamy air. They turned toward him and he flashed his badge right away to alleviate any fears, gaving the couple a polite nod. They had been speaking a kind of Fukienese Mandarin from which P.O. Wong was piecing together the situation. Their teenage son, Hong, about five-foot six, wearing a gray jacket with hood, and black jeans, had gone out on deliveries and hadn’t returned. Calls to his cell phone went unanswered.

“Where’s the order pad?” asked Jack.

P.O. Wong handed it over, and as Jack scanned the addresses, Wong said, “There were two deliveries, one on Twelfth, the other over by the river at the Riis Houses.

“If only Ah Jun hadn’t called out sick,” the father groaned, “Hong wouldn’t have had to help out today. He had hoped to go to a party after work.”

“Maybe he went straight to the party? After making the deliveries?”

“No, never. He would have called. His cell phone—”

“He had trouble with that phone,” the mother interrupted. “The battery was bad, and the service was unreliable.”

P.O. Wong, considering that his own cell phone had just died, said, “Maybe he tried to call?”

“Could he have gone to the party, planning to call you when he got there?” offered Jack.

“No,” they both answered. “ He’s not like that. He’s a good boy, responsible. Top student in school.”

“We wanted to close up,” fretted the father. “Not just because of the weather, but also because it’s Christmas, and it’s a family night. We were ready to go home.” He exchanged a stunned look with his wife, adding softly, “But then the two orders came in . . .” She looked away and started trembling as he continued, “They totaled over ninety dollars. We couldn’t turn them down, a twenty-minute cook and pack.” He paused, took a breath. “Then the delivery. If everything goes okay, we go home before eleven.”

The father looked from Jack to P.O. Wong, and back. “But then we got the orders. . . ,” he repeated, putting his arm across his wife’s shoulder.

Jack saw telephone numbers scrawled across the top of the order pad. The last two deliveries were far apart; the first was to 129 Twelfth Street, for Stenhagen. Shrimp with Snow Peas, mixed Vegetables, Seafood Delight. Sounded like NYU people. Twenty-three dollars and a free can of no-name cola. The second delivery was to 444 Avenue D, at the river’s edge of the Alphabets, in the Jacob Riis Houses, deep into the projects. To a Miller, Das, something-scribbled, apartment 14D. A large order, doubles on everything: General Tso’s Chicken, Mongolian Beef, Happy Family Combo, and four quarts of fried rice and lo mein. Almost seventy dollars. A projects party or a group with mad holiday munchies.

P.O. Wong jotted down the last statements. The mother had continued to call the son’s cell phone. And they had tried calling the order numbers back, to track deliveries, but the first customer hung up when she was unable to understand their poor English. The second number never answered and their call went to a voice-mail blank.

“According to Dad here,” Wong offered, “both deliveries should have taken a total of a half hour, forty minutes tops. And now we’re a half hour on top of that.”

“What does the bike look like?” Jack asked.

“It’s a cheap bicycle,” the mother said, fighting back her tears. “The kind no one would want to steal. A black color.”

“It had a thick chain,” the father added, “with a big brass lock, from China.”

“A Chinese lock? A China brand?” Jack asked.

“Yes.”

Jack gave them his card. “Call me if he telephones or comes back here,” he said. “In the meantime, we’ll take a look.”

The couple began to offer profuse thanks.

Jack stopped them abruptly. “We can’t promise anything,” he said. “ Maybe it’s nothing, but stay by the phone in case we have to reach you.” He looked at P.O. Wong who was already leaning toward the door. “You check out the Twelfth Street delivery,” Jack said. “That’s closer. Then meet me at the second drop if it’s good.”

They left the parents whose fearful looks followed them out, the mother wringing her hands.

Outside, Jack handed Wong a two-way radio. “I took it from the stationhouse,” he said, “my cell is working so I’m good. But what’s up with you? I thought you had the day shift.”

“Nah,” Wong answered, twisting the radio’s volume dial to full blast. “ I’m changing to nights. Was a discretionary thing.”