Jack shoved the dead dog’s body away. With his left arm hanging, mangled and dripping blood, he started to push himself up, edging against the wall in a crouch. Suddenly, another shape, firing wildly, like firecrackers on Chinese New Year, ran toward the open door.

Shooting from the hip Jack answered with shots of his own, saw the blur of a black face under a white do-rag flinch before continuing out of the apartment. Following the sound of footsteps retreating, Jack heard his Colt’s hammer snapping down on spent shell casings, his trigger finger jerking reflexively.

He flipped the barrel open and shook out the spent shells, tried for his reloader clip but his left arm only trembled. He tucked the barrel of the Colt under his left armpit and used his right hand to get the reloader from his jacket pocket. His left side shook uncontrollably as he reloaded, meanwhile thinking, Pull the cell phone, turn the lights on, call for help.

Footsteps and noise from the outside corridor.

The man in the white do-rag reappeared in the doorway as Jack slipped his finger over the Colt’s blood-slicked trigger, ready to pull.

Then he heard the police radio, and suddenly the lights were switched on as P.O. Wong stepped out from behind the gangsta. Jack could see that the man was cuffed, and bleeding from the left leg. The wail of sirens came from the streets below, response to P.O Wong’s 10-13, officer down , crackling over the radio.

“Caught him limping away from the building,” Wong said. “Had this little shit gun on him. Called it in.”

In the stark light Jack saw traces of blood everywhere. The first man had a sucking chest wound, bloody fingers caressing a big fake diamond cross on a chain, his eyes with a faraway look. A baseball bat lay near the dead pit bull who was staring at them with open jaws. And more blood, smaller scattered splatters, led toward the inside rooms. Blood that Jack didn’t think was his, or theirs.

“Officer-involved shooting,” Wong was barking into his radio. Then more sirens, distant, sounded below them.

Further inside stood a roach-infested kitchen table bearing empty containers of Chinese food, spilled cleanser, and plastic bottles of Windex, and Clorox, next to a thin roll of paper towels. Someone’s messy attempt to clean up.

Jack stagger-stepped over to the take-out containers, saw a crumpled receipt. He unfolded it, and matched it to the copy he had in his pocket.

“Where’s the kid? Where’s the kid?” Jack yelled, feeling a sudden pinching pain in the left side of his chest.

“Don’t know nuthin ’bout no kid!”

Jack took in a slow tai chi breath, exhaled, and said, “You’re going down hard for this, punkass. You know that.”

“Fuck you, man. I ain’t done shit.”

“Not yet. But you’re going to do life , sucka—”

“Fuck you.”

Keeping his eyes lowered, Jack fought the spasm of pain and the urge to pistol-whip the scumbag.

“Fuck you,” again, as P.O. Wong pulled Jack away. “Fuck both yo chinky asses.”

Jack propped himself against the wall. He was becoming lightheaded, his chi—energy—bleeding out of him.

The EMS rushed in. The techs took him, the cop, first, cutting up his left sleeve, pulling out loaded spikes for tetanus, painkiller. Combat meds and swabs.

“Fuck, ma leg’s bleeding, too!”

“They’ll get to you,” Wong said, sitting him down opposite the man with the chest wound.

“Whoa,” one of the techs said. “He’s got a chest wound, too.” They spread open Jack’s jacket, cut open his shirt, found the wound. They checked his back, applied a compress.

“Surface,” said one of the techs, as they patched him, laying him on a gurney, injecting him with another spike as they rolled him toward Wong, who was saying into the radio, “Major Case advised, en route. Request assistance to search for missing person.”

Other uniforms rushed in now.

“Find the kid,” Jack said, grabbing Wong’s arm. “Call the parents.”

Then he was bumping into the stinking elevator as another EMS team arrived. Sliding through the courtyard, the cold fresh air rushing around him, into the ambulance under the yellow glow and blur of street lamps.

Then the night colors were flying by.

“Cabrini . . . Emergency,” the EMS barked over the radio.

Just as the painkiller took hold he imagined a ringtone somewhere, familiar but distant. By the time he realized it was his cell phone, in his jacket somewhere, the gurney was rocking and swirling. He wondered if it was Alex calling, or Wong, or the parents of Hong, at the takeout, but then the medication swept over him, blotting out the light in his head, and tossing him into blackness.

Break

Down

Shorty pissed out the beer into the stained bowl of the closet bathroom, listening to Koo Jai angrily pacing the length of the long flat, grumbling as he went, tossing magazines, beer cans, and leftover takeout into the big plastic bag he dragged behind him. Shorty flushed the toilet, then swung open the small vent window. He could see that the street was dead quiet. For an instant, he recalled squeezing in through that opening, back when the flat served as the Stars hangout, and they had locked themselves out. He sure was the hero that day.

“You fucked up,” bitched Koo Jai.

Emerging from the bathroom, Shorty wagged his middle finger at Koo Jai’s back, saying “What the fuck . . .” almost to himself. He noticed the section of floorboard askew beneath the mirror, where Koo Jai hadn’t kicked it back into place properly. The Stars used to store weapons there, and now, he figured Koo Jai was stashing swag as well. The watches maybe, or some cash. He thought of his last Movado, having sold the others and the Rolex as well. The Stars had used another stash spot, by the front window.

“You fucked up,” Koo Jai repeated. “You jerked me off.”

Shorty, tired of his complaining, said, “What the fuck didja want me to do? Tell the dailo no? He snatches me off the street, tells me to bring him up here. He’s got that big gorilla with him, and I’m gonna argue?”

“You coulda called me first, jerk-off.” Koo Jai steamed. “You coulda told him you could get hold of me by phone. You coulda gave me a heads-up.”

“The boss said, ‘Take me up there.’”

“Call. At least I wouldn’t be standing there in my fuckin’ underwear.”

“The man said, ‘Take me up.’ So fuck you—”

“And fuck you, too,” Koo Jai spat out. “Bitch.”

“—And your fuckin’ underwear.” Shorty ran out, slamming the door.

“You fuckin’ idiot!” screamed Koo Jai. Curses followed Shorty down the stairs.

“Asshole,” fumed Shorty. I’m the one opening the doors, and I can’t get no respect? Fuck his pretty-boy faggot ass. Payback is a mean bitch.

Back in the flat, Koo Jai tossed the full plastic bag at the door, anger boiling over, more unsettled now by the flow of events. Dailo comes out here, gives us smokes and pills, tells us to watch the buses? He mentions the rip-offs. Are we being included, finally, with the inside crews? Or is somebody playing us along?

Ghost Face

Lucky’s thoughts shifted back to Koo Jai, and the twenty gees the wayward little dog would need to come up with.

His dragon’s anger vented, Lucky’s cool-down demeanor was restored. He saw the situation with new objectivity. He knew he could hide the hatred he still held inside, knew he could run his concerned-big-brother routine. He’d demand his take, insinuating there would be deadly consequences for failing to produce the cash out. But he’d go easy, give him some time to put it together. Wait until the cash got squared, until after the holidays, when things quieted down, before chaat sai keuih, erasing, the whole crew.