“Okay, I get it.” He sipped his mammoth coffee. “So what’s the plan?”

“We have no plan. Mary has people keeping an eye on Mr. Chen and other people keeping an eye on the White Eagles. I’m obediently staying out of it, even though both leads came from me. If the police department gives a civilian medal of honor, I think I should get one.”

“For leads, or obedience?”

“Both.”

“So we’re just here for breakfast?”

“You don’t like the coffee?”

“It’s great. And this cream horn is even better.”

“Don’t even tell me about that thing.”

“And if Wong Pan shows up?”

“If he does, I want to…”

He gave me a moment, then prompted, “You want to what?”

“See him. I just want to see him.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“I’m lying.”

Across the street, sunlight flashed off the door at Bright Hopes as Irene Ng stepped outside to inspect the window display.

“I wonder if Chen’s in there?” Bill said.

“I would really, really like to go over and find out.”

“Tell me again how long you and Mary have been best friends?”

“Okay, all right,” I grumbled. I sipped tea and watched the comings and goings. I was trying to convince myself the chewy dough and spicy sweet filling of my red bean bun were enough compensation for being forced to sit on the sidelines when Bill nudged me.

“There’s your cousin.”

And damned if Armpit Kwan wasn’t slouching up the other side of the street. His greasy hair flopped over his forehead, and if he’d changed his shirt since yesterday, it only proved his entire wardrobe was equally spattered and disgusting.

“Those two guys,” I said. “The one next to him and the one who just stopped at the noodle cart? They’re White Eagles, too.”

“Big deal ones?”

“I don’t think so. Junior nobodies, like Armpit. I wonder where Fishface is. Or his lieutenants.”

We watched Armpit and his boys meander. They stuck to that block but didn’t pay much attention to Bright Hopes. They smoked, they ate, they ogled girls.

“Must be waiting for the boss to show up,” Bill said.

I agreed; if this was the White Eagles’s big score, nothing would happen without their dai lo.

“That guy with the map, by the mailbox.” Bill pointed. “Fifty cents says he’s a cop.”

“And the man selling folded-paper animals. And the Xpress Messenger van, which doesn’t seem interested in expressing anything and isn’t getting a ticket after twenty minutes in a no-standing zone.”

“Well, everyone’s ready.”

I grabbed his arm. “Maybe not for everything.”

Making his way along the sidewalk was C. D. Zhang, carrying a leather briefcase. He entered Bright Hopes, where Irene Ng led him toward the back. She returned to the counter alone. C. D. Zhang must be in the office with his cousin, Mr. Chen, and I’d have bet a nickel his brother, Zhang Li, was there, too.

“Family conference?” Bill asked.

“Did you see Armpit checking out C. D. Zhang when he went in?”

“Yes.”

“I just got a bad feeling.”

“About what?”

“Our two upcoming crimes. They may be the same. Do you think the White Eagles could have heard about the Shanghai Moon? And they’re waiting for Wong Pan to bring it to sell to Mr. Chen so they can steal it?”

“Well, if that’s the case, they’re walking into the biggest mousetrap in Chinatown.”

We waited for more mice, but none showed. Just as I finished my tea, C. D. Zhang came out again. He headed briskly off in the direction he’d come from.

“What was that about?” I asked, but rhetorically. I pulled my phone out.

“You’d better be calling from Florida,” Mary said.

“C. D. Zhang just went in and out of Bright Hopes.”

“How do you know that?”

“I have a periscope. Look, I know you have people watching the place, but I wasn’t sure they know who he is.”

“I’m watching it myself,” she grudgingly admitted. “That was him just now?”

“You’re in the van?”

“Never mind. That was him?”

That was the cop speaking, not the friend, so I just said, “Yes.”

“He’s family and in the business. Why shouldn’t he drop in?”

“I don’t know. But on a day like this-”

“We don’t know it’s a day like this.”

“Oh, come on! There are three White Eagles loitering on that block, including Armpit. Wait-four. Warren Li just turned up.”

“Another bottom-feeder. No big score is going down just because those four punks are hanging out. Besides which, I know Li’s here, because I have two surveillances going, one on Chen and one on your no-good cousin. On your say-so, Lydia. If at least one of them doesn’t pan out my captain’s going to bust me back to the street and the overtime for all this will come out of my paycheck. And you’re about to ask me to put a tail on another old man who dropped by his cousin’s store? Don’t tell me you weren’t, I know you were. By the way, where are you?”

“In Tai-Pan. Mary-”

“Lydia! I told you-”

“I know: Get lost.”

“And when were you planning to do that?”

“Now. Right now. ’Bye.” I clicked off, jumped down from the stool, and told Bill, “Come on.”

“Where are we going?”

“Mary said to get lost.”

We burned rubber out of Tai-Pan-Mary probably watching us scurry-and managed to pick up C. D. Zhang two blocks west. He threaded through the gray-market car stereos, fake Rolexes and counterfeit handbags with the practiced sidestep of a Chinatown local.

And returned to his own office.

Standing on the south side of Canal keeping an eye on a business on the north side might not have qualified as “lost” in Mary’s book, but really, there’s nowhere in Chinatown I could get lost anyway. I did feel a little lost when, after about twenty minutes, Bill asked, “Why are we doing this?” The answer was obvious, though: I had to be doing something.

“Anyway, it’s weird,” I said. “Mr. Chen and Mr. Zhang don’t hang out with C. D. Zhang. He said so, Mr. Zhang said so, and Irene Ng said so. If C. D. had something to tell them or ask them, why didn’t he just call? Why go over and then not stay long? They hardly had time for a cup of tea. No, something’s up. Definitely. Positively. Why are you being so quiet?”

He grinned around his cigarette. “Adrenaline affects different people differently.”

We hung out across from C. D. Zhang’s office for close to an hour as the day got hotter and stickier. Two more White Eagles passed us, one I knew and one I didn’t but both with tattoos conveniently exposed.

“They don’t seem to feel any need for discretion,” Bill said.

“What good’s a gang tattoo if you can’t intimidate people with it?”

I restrained myself from leaving Bill on C. D. Zhang watch and charging up Canal to see what the gathering gang cloud was up to. I didn’t want to find out that Mary had ordered me arrested if I got too close to that end of the street; it wouldn’t be good for our friendship.

As the sun mounted, I began to wish I had a hat. Or a bottle of water. Or a purpose. Traffic snarled and flowed, snarled and flowed in a mesmerizing rhythm. We stood there breathing fumes, fried turnip cakes, and other people’s sweat. Wiping my forehead, I said to Bill, “I’m starting to feel like one of Armpit’s T-shirts.”

“That’s pretty serious. You want to take turns grabbing a drink in someplace air-conditioned?”

“No, but tell me something. Am I crazy, standing here like this? And are you just humoring me, or proving your loyalty or something?”

He shook his head. “I’m here because I think you’re right.”

I was about to demand proof of this ridiculous assertion, but I didn’t get the chance. Because proof came hurrying up the block: Wong Pan.