There were a thousand Ecstasy tablets in the sack, Lucky knew, and the count was sure to be good. The pills were the result of a handshake deal between the Montreal Ghosts and the Vietnamese crew that manufactured the “club drugs” in Canada. The Vietnamese got the raw materials from The Netherlands and operated several Ecstasy mills in Montreal, Toronto, and Edmonton. The Ghost Legion handled the mules and a million pills a month were smuggled south across the border into the states, winding up in nightclubs and dance-halls across the country. Kongo stashed the sack inside a hidden compartment behind the stick-shift panel. The thousand tablets wouldn’t last two weekends in NYC.

They came to a red light and a police cruiser passed in the opposite direction. Lucky felt for the butt of his pistol, but as the police car faded in the rearview mirror, he turned his thoughts back to the robberies out past East Broadway. The USA Garments factory had had its payroll ripped off by armed masked intruders who never uttered a word but instead, communicated with hand signals and signs. Fifty gees cash.

Fuk Ching gangbangers? The Dragons again? It didn’t seem like their style, and Lucky didn’t think they were smart enough anyway. More than one crew working no-man’s-land? He thought about Koo Jai and the Ghost Legion crew out on East Broadway, farthest from the center. It was Koo Jai’s responsibility to control things out there, even though they’d banged up against some Fuk Ching lowboys and were now operating on disputed turf under an unspoken, unofficial truce. Koo Jai, the pretty-boy hustler with the short pal, Eddie Ng, the stupid Jung brothers, and a few other kids who used to be called the Stars, or something corny like that.

Lucky would need to call in Koo Jai for a sit-down after the transfers at the gambling basements, and after the whorehouse on Chrystie, toward which Lefty was now turning the dark car.

Chao’s

Chao’s was a cathouse in a renovated five-story condo building on a quiet part of Chrystie Street near the old junkie park. Lucky brought along one of the Prada bags and dropped a fistful of Ecstasy pills inside it.

Angelina Chao, fortyish, a one-time Hong Kong hostess, ran the tidy little show out of her two-bedroom suite on the fifth floor, with a balcony that looked out over the park and the jumbled maze of rooftops in the distance. Angelina rotated a posse of Asian pussy from Miami, Los Angeles, Las Vegas, and New Orleans.

Appetizers, blowjobs, were fifty bucks a pop.

Chaos, mused Lucky, playing the thought off of Angelina’s last name. He had called ahead to Angelina and she’d assured him he’d be the new girl’s first suck off of the night. Earlier, he had heard some out-of-town gamblers laughing about a jop-jung mixed-breed girl, a fresh one over at Angelina’s, a half-Cuban half-Chinese ho who performed something called a “yingyang” or “blackout” blowjob. Some johns had actually passed out. What? She knew how to squeeze a john’s balls just right, at just the right moment while she was sucking the head so that the juices exploded out as she drained it dry.

He considered wearing a condom, and saw himself as test- ing the new merchandise, seeing what the girl’s skills were, sort of like quality control.

Lefty and Kongo waited in the car, patiently aware that the basements on Mott Street would be the next stop.

Lucky didn’t see any johns hanging around and Angelina waved him into one of the bedrooms. There was a twin bed, a nightstand, and a chair in one corner. The bedspread, the carpet, the curtains, were all red.

He stood by the door and rebuckled his belt after running it through the loop handle of the Prada bag. He swallowed an Ecstasy and waited. After a few minutes the jop-jung girl came in through a connecting door. She saw the Prada bag dangling in front of Lucky’s crotch and smiled. When she let her red silk gown slip off her shoulders, Lucky saw she was naked, a bodacious tanned body with an exotic face that displayed the best of her two bloodlines. Feline brown eyes and lips that were puffy, swollen, and sexy. Long silky black hair that shimmered when she turned her face.

She knelt down before him and unbuckled his belt, carefully placing the Prada bag to one side, never taking her eyes off him even as she unzipped his fly. She tugged down his pants, and pulled his lun cock out, caressing it with her French-tip fingernails.

“Dios mio,” she exclaimed softly, “Nei dai sai.” My god, how big you are, playing him along in two languages.

“Nei ho yeh,” he answered sarcastically. “You’re the winner. I heard you’re the best.”

She smiled again, licked her lips, and then ran her tongue in a circle around the head of his cock. She licked it until it was swollen, and proceeded to suck him slow and strong.

The Ecstasy was working against the sensimilla now, working him like a yo-yo.

He felt the strength draining from his arms, his legs, all his blood rushing toward his cock, his heart pumping hard to keep things working. The shortness of breath caught him as he saw the mass of shiny black hair bobbing up and down at his stomach. She tightened her lips and deep-throated him. The pressure was building in his head, ready now. She was stroking his shaft, caressing his balls with her other hand. His orgasm exploded into her mouth, four, five, six loads. The noise he heard was his own groaning, the sweet anguish throbbing in his loins.

He was sucking in air through his nostrils, his mouth gasping like a fish, his thighs quivering as he braced his back against the door. He let his heart slow down as he came back to earth. When she turned her head he saw a sweet face, contemplating her palms. She looked up at him with her big brown eyes, then opened her mouth, and tilted her head to let the thick milky jism spill over her lower lip, her tongue pushing the spittle and saliva out into her palms. A thick translucent strand clung to her chin. She smiled and wiped it off with the back of her hand. Reaching into the nightstand, she took out a small towelette and wiped the stickiness off his shaft. There was no need for words and he watched her as she turned, still on all fours, crawling her way off with the red gown and the Prada bag in tow, giving him a rear view of her departing pussy. She stood up at the connecting door, and their eyes met a last time before she exited the room. China-cubana.

He took a deep breath, pulled his pants up, zipped his fly, and after a few shaky steps, made his way back to the frozen night and the black car.

* * *

It was a short ride back from Chrystie to Mott Street, so Lucky left the window open, the cold wind on his face working with the Ecstasy, refocusing his mind.

The On Yee always collected cash off the streets before holiday weekends, and squared up the Chinese accounts, before the crush of waiters crowded into the gambling dens, their pockets fat with Thanksgiving Dinner tip money from the gwailo white devils.

When they reached Bayard Street, it was almost ten-thirty, early yet for the gambling crowd. Lefty parked the Riviera on Mulberry, facing north, and out, toward the Holland Tunnel or the Manhattan Bridge, a quick left or right if they needed to bust out of Chinatown.

Lucky, Lefty, and Kongo walked onto Mott and the street was quiet except for the shrill whistle of the arctic wind.

They went into Number Nine basement first.

The basement was brightly lit, and Lucky saw one mahjong game underway, but otherwise there was only a smattering of the association’s cronies hanging around making lowball bets just to keep the action going. It was cold out, and anyway, the night was young for the night crawlers, he thought.