They’d matched the fingerprints on the shell casings to the shooters, making it clearer.

Ballistics and Foreign Sics

Except for Lefty—Cham—all the other gang vics had suffered multiple gunshot wounds. Lefty had expired due to a single kill-shot wound determined to have come from the .357 Magnum revolver of Joey Jung. The magnum slug had drilled a hole in Lefty’s chest and exploded half his heart out through his back.

Kong, the big Malaysian, had taken eight hits from four different guns; two in the chest from Jimmy Jung’s nine-millimeter, two more in the stomach from Koo Kit’s .380. Joey Jung had shattered Kong’s right hip with two .357 Magnum rounds, but it was a pair of high-velocity .22-caliber slugs that had put out the big man’s lights.

Two twenty-twos through the right eye.

They’d extracted the killshots from inside Kong’s skull, where the spinning metal pieces had torn up half his brain matter before fragmenting, flattening against bone.

Jack imagined the scene with wicked clarity, tracing the gun battle in his mind, seeing all the players with the star tattoos exchanging gunfire with Lucky’s crew. It had to have happened so fast Tat never got to draw his gun. Thirty seconds, less than a minute.

Jack saw a chain of actions and reactions pulling the gangboys along helplessly, like puppets. Who was the first shooter? They hadn’t found any eyewitnesses. Wait for Tat to talk? If ever?

The Jung brothers had both been seriously wounded by the heavy scattershot from Kong’s shotgun, but it was Jimmy who’d borne the brunt of the blasts. A dozen pellets had ripped open his chest and pierced his heart.

Joey Jung had three gaping wounds from the shotgun, but the two nine-millimeter headshots from Lefty Cham were what killed him. Except in right profile, he no longer bore a resemblance to his brother.

Koo Kit had taken two nine-millimeter blasts to his left shoulder and leg, sureshot Lefty drilling him, probably, as he was angling toward the alley. He’d made it partway to Doyers when four .22 hi-vels ripped through his back and riddled his heart from behind.

Twenty-twos. They’d recovered two slugs intact, in perfect shape.

Jack remembered the body sprawled near the bend in the alley.

The ME had noted that all the .22-caliber bullets had penetrated at an upward angle, as if the shooter was on one knee, or shooting from the hip. Since they hadn’t recovered any .22-caliber shell casings, Jack figured the gun had to be a revolver.

Somewhere in the puzzle was a missing .22- caliber piece, and a shooter in the wind who was responsible for two kill shot homicides and a coma victim.

The old man, Fong, didn’t appear to be a homicide. If he was, they’d never be able to prove it. The ME had ruled COD as cardiac arrest. Instant death due to a massive heart attack. He never knew what hit him. A quick death, better than a slow one. Who was the perp? God?

Closing the envelope, Jack called One Police Plaza, and then Manhattan South.

Most Precious

Bo was disappointed that Sai Go hadn’t shown up that week. She’d brought in a box of don tot, egg custard tarts, and planned to take him to Golden Unicorn for yum cha, tea. She’d guessed that he’d gone on another gambling junket with his friends.

When the two men in suits came through the door, she thought they were walk-ins, even though she’d hardly ever seen suits walking into the New Canton. A Chinese man and a white man, quietly glancing around the shop. Abruptly, the Chinese man asked for the owner, and KeeKee beckoned him over, a curious look on her face.

They spoke in low voices, and after a few moments, all looked at Bo.

Bo’s first fear was that the men were immigration agents.

Someone had betrayed her and they were here to send her back to China, or to extort money.

She was puzzled when the Chinese man explained that he was a lawyer, and that he was a friend of Sai Go. The Caucasian man, according to the lawyer, was an agent for an insurance company. They had some papers for her to sign, and items to turn over.

The Chinese lawyer, named Lo Fay, explained that Sai Go had suffered a sudden heart attack, and passed away.

Bo trembled as sadness came over her. The jade gourd and the Kwan Kung talisman had failed.

“You are the beneficiary of his life insurance policy, and according to his will . . .”

She started to weep, and KeeKee put an arm around her, comforting her.

“Fifty thousand dollars . . .”

She heard his words as if from a distance, in fragments, unable to comprehend the numbers. She remembered Sai Go’s last visit, when he had gifted her with the betting ticket from OTB. He’d had a smile on his face.

She trembled uncontrollably through her tears, and could not help thinking of her family in China.

“He’d had no relatives to consider.”

She felt ashamed that she was already thinking about paying off the snakeheads, but she found new hope in Sai Go’s generosity. She might finally bring her daughter and mother to America.

“Evergreen Hills cemetery,” Lo Fay was saying, “by the new Fong Association section.”

KeeKee told Bo to go home and rest and grieve privately but she insisted on finishing out the day.

She vowed to herself to pay respects in the morning, at Sai Go’s grave. She promised to sweep around his tombstone every spring’s ching ming, memorial period, at every anniversary of his passing, for the rest of her life.

At the end of the day, an old Chinese man came to the salon and presented Bo with a package, saying it was from his friend Fong Sai Go. She thanked him and he left. Removing the brown mahjong-paper wrapping, usually used by old-timers to cover the playing surface, she saw a polished mahogany box with a mother-of-pearl Double-Happiness symbol inlaid across the top. Inside the box was the gold-plated talisman card she’d given to Sai Go long ago. Beneath the talisman was a large red lai see, lucky-money envelope.

The lai see was thick. She opened it and saw neatly banded stacks of hundred-dollar bills. Lucky money from an honorable caring man who’d run out of time. She quickly put everything back into the Chinese box and left the salon.

Outside, the evening was black, and frozen. She cried all the way home, her hot tears mercifully wiping away the hopelessness that had shrouded her heart.

Intelligence

Reaching out to the Gang Intelligence squad, Jack was able to access the computer records specific to Chinatown gangs.

The Ghost crew run by Lucky had had serious charges filed against them that were mostly dropped, dismissed, or pleaded-out. Assault, robbery, promoting an illegal gambling enterprise, possession of controlled substances, and weapons violations. Suspected in numerous assaults and homicides. The On Yee was rumored to have good white lawyers on their payroll. Knowing this, Jack scrolled on and clicked deeper. Under IDENTIFYING TATTOOS AND MARKS, he entered “red star.”

The Stars popped up, a dozen thumbnail pictures of adolescent Chinese faces. The Stars were thought to be one of many small gangs, the off-shoot younger brothers of outcast Chinatown gangs that had vied for leftovers along the stretch of East Broadway before the Ghosts and the Fukienese came along.

The Stars, with less than twenty members, had mostly petty criminal records: disorderly conduct, petty larceny, attempted assault, criminal mischief, nothing as hard-core as Lucky’s Ghosts.

Maybe they just hadn’t gotten caught with the serious stuff?

Sometime after 1989, their activities ceased. Long-standing warrants for their top leaders went for naught. As if they’d disappeared.