And he’d blame it on the Fuks.

That would put the old men on the spot. Then he’d lay back and see which dogs ran to which side.

He caught up with Koo Jai at the One-Six-Eight, sitting alone at the far end of the bar, chugging down a Tsingtao. Koo Jai was engrossed in some action flick playing on the television above the cash register and never noticed Lucky until he was behind him, the dailo grinning at him in the bar mirror. Koo Jai started to turn but Lucky put a hand on his shoulder, saying with a steely smile, “Just listen up.”

Koo Jai noticed how the dailo ’s gun hand never left his jacket pocket, which he held lifted slightly off his hip, a hard angle protruding. Again the steely grin. He knew Lucky could nail him before he’d make it off the bar stool.

“You got hoots pa,” Lucky said, “Know what that means?”

Koo Jai shook his head uncertainly.

“It’s Jewish,” Lucky smirked. “Means you got balls.”

The hand on his shoulder felt more reassuring now to Koo Jai.

“And that’s a good thing,” Lucky continued. “Smart, too, the way you’ve pulled it off.”

Koo Jai smiled, dumbfounded.

Lucky’s voice softened, saying, “We could use more guys with smarts and balls.” Playing him. “But here’s the problem. You still gotta square it up, what’s due the senior crew, is due. Know what I’m saying?”

Koo Jai nodded his head like a bobble-head doll, mouth open, suddenly short of breath.

“Then everything would be even,”offered Lucky. “Brothers all around, hah?” He paused. “ Otherwise, too many people lose face.” Another pause. “And you know, lose face and you lose lives.”

Koo Jai felt like a fish, caught in a shrinking net.

“So, however you do it, I don’t care. Call your crew together,” Lucky instructed. “Dump the shit, whatever. Bring me twenty gees cash. I don’t want any fuckin’ watches, jewelry, no fuckin’ bird’s-nests. Nothing but cash. Twenty large, dollars.” He could feel the wheels revving up in Koo Jai’s head. “Look,” the Big Brother said almost amicably, “ I know it’s Christmastime, and it ain’t easy to cough it all up. I’ll give you a coupla weeks, until the end of the year. How’s that, huh?”

“Good,” Koo Jai said meekly.

“Good. Because it’s all about face. And the watches should be easy to move, with the holidays and gifts and all, right?”

Koo Jai smiled and nodded. Lucky patted him on the back, saying through an artifical smile, “And by the way, that twenty includes the gee I paid your bookie at the OTB.” He watched Koo Jai’s eyes go distant, then leaned closer, saying softly, “So merry fuckin’ Christmas, brother .”

And then he left him twisting on the stool at the run-down bar.

Fade In

Jack awoke to a bullet-gray sky pressed against the recovery-room window. He was unsure of where he was, and when he tried to change his position he felt tethered, tubes pulling at his arm, an IV drip above him, a blood packet hanging down. And then Alexandra’s clenched face breaking into a gentle smile.

“Easy, tough guy,” she said.

“Where . . . ?” he began to ask.

“Cabrini Emergency.” Alex brought her face closer. “It’s nine-thirty AM.”

“How long. . . ?” He coughed, trying to shake off the medication.

“I didn’t see you at Midnight Mass so I figured something had come up. I called the precinct and found out you were here.”

“What happened with the kid?” He rubbed his temple with his free hand.

“There was an Officer Wong at the nurse’s station. He said he was following up.”

“The parents . . . what happened?” He scanned the room for his clothes, didn’t see them anywhere.

“Jack,” Alex said quietly, “ the doctor says you need to rest.”

He closed his eyes, saw the yowling jaws of the pit bull, the flash fire from the muzzle of the Colt, the baseball bat arcing through the light.

“Yeah, rest,” he said.

“There was a second call. Some other detectives involved—”

Major Case, he guessed, handling the shooting. He wondered where his gun was, figured Wong would’ve taken it per the officer-involved shooting rules, for tests. Forensics and Internal Affairs.

“But Jack, the doctor wants to keep you another night, for observation. You’ve got a chest wound, too.”

Chest wound? Jack didn’t understand, thought the meds had affected his hearing. A dog chewed my arm. What chest wound? He brought his hand up over his heart, felt the layer of gauze and tape there.

Abruptly, the doctor, a haggard face and balding head in a white coat, poked his face past the vinyl curtain.

“Awake, great,” he said, “ Detective, how’re you feeling?”

“Like crap,” Jack answered, wondering about the pinching sensation in his chest.

“That’s to be expected,” the doctor said. “We’re keeping you overnight, running rabies tests. And because of the chest wound, as a precaution.”

Jack took a slow, deep, breath, felt something pulling in his left lung area.

The doctor continued, “Luckily, it was a through-and-through. Small caliber, in and out of your pectoral, just grazed the breastplate.”

“Breathing feels tight,” Jack said.

The doctor gave Alex a reassuring glance. “You’re feeling the stitches,” he said to Jack. “And you’re lucky, Detective. If you’d had your torso twisted another inch that way, the bullet would have pierced your heart.”

The punk-ass, firing wildly at him in the dark. He’d been hit and hadn’t even realized it. He remembered instead the screaming pain of the dog’s bite. He suddenly worried that the stitches in his chest would pop.

“So take it easy,” the doctor continued, “Your commanding officer tells me it’s the second time you’ve been wounded within three months.”

Second time. He hadn’t thought about the first shootout in Brooklyn, with the tall Chinese tong enforcer, Golo, who was in a Potter’s Field now. He’d filed it away in the back of his mind, fallout from his tour in the Fifth Precinct.

The doctor looked for focus in Jack’s eyes. “So,” he continued, “I believe the department’s got you scheduled for mandatory leave.”

“Leave?” Jack asked, casting an unhappy look at Alex.

“Jack,” she said, “it’s for your own good. A procedural thing.” She paused before adding “There’s probably going to be a psych evaluation also. You’ll be out for a while.”

“Leave,” Jack repeated softly to himself, his mind drifting. “It’s Christmas Day,” he suddenly remembered, looking at Alex, “and you’re here.”

“Well, Chloe’s at my parents, until dinner. I was only going to SoHo, to shop a little. No biggie. Just wanted to make sure you were okay.” She patted his hand.

There was a quiet moment, then the doctor said, “The nurse will be in shortly. You need to rest. And I’ll look in on you in the afternoon.”

“Thanks, Doc,” Jack said, his mind still processing information. Then the phone rang somewhere close, his ring tone. Alex took his cell phone out of a closet in the side of the room. He caught a glimpse of his clothes inside as she handed it to him. He flipped the phone open, saw a number he didn’t recognize, then heard P.O. Wong’s tired voice.

“We found the body,” he said.

God’s General Gourd

She followed the wide ruts of truck tire tracks in the snow, turning the corner off Bayard.

In the Mulberry Street spirit shop, Bo checked the time, saw she still had an hour before her shift at the New Canton. She had wanted to pick up a tea, and a bao, a bun, along the way.

The shop smelled of jasmine and incense. There were bamboo umbrellas, ceramic gods and goddesses, lacquered dragons and Buddhas. She saw beaded bracelets, necklaces with Taoist trigrams, embroidered silk purses in all colors. As she searched, she remembered the words cancer and radiation, and wondered what talisman could ward off pain. Past a wall of cemetery items, candles and death money, there were strands of mini-temples and bot gwa talismans, amulets, and charm bracelets. She needed a different talisman. If mercy wasn’t enough, she’d have to switch from the goddess Kuan Yin to a stronger, more masculine god. Naturally, she came upon Kwan Kung, General Kwan, God of War. Computer-etched onto the gold-plated metal card, Kwan Kung with his flowing black beard, his battle ax, and his fierce scowl was the one.