morning at Wah Fook.”
“So fast?”
“It’s symbolic, yo. You think anybody’s checking the ashes? They can bury him anytime. Whenever the cremation’s done. It’s all potter’s field anyways.”
“What time?”
“Nine to noon. They already posted an obit in the Chinese papers.”
“Ceremonial,” Jack observed. “What cemetery?”
“You gotta check with Wah Fook.” Billy seemed amused,watching Jack carve off pieces of Kim’s legendary rib eye, devouring them.
“Any other surprises?” Jack asked as they clanged the last of their beers. Billy chortled like a villain.
“You know those phone numbers on the menu paper?” Billy paused for effect as Jack waited for the punch line. “They’re restaurants all owned by Bossy Gee.”
B OSSY G EE lit up a few lights in Jack’s head. Prominent Chinatown businessman, big shot with the Hip Ching Association. Owns a bunch of Chinatown buildings . His family had a long local history, with connections to Hong Kong and Taiwan.
“The eight-eight-eight prefix on those restaurant numbers?” Billy offered. “Bossy’s idea. The Lucky Eights. Bot bot bot . The Triple Eights.”
Gamblers’ numbers, suckers’ payout . He wondered if it was all just coincidence. Bossy Gee had been investigated by the Organized Crime Control Bureau (OCCB) for alleged ties to local tongs . Bossy Gee was known as the black sheep of the Gees. Not surprising that the association wouldn’t want to get dragged into any of his endeavors.
“The Lucky Dragon and Lucky Phoenix he acquired in a fire sale. The previous Fukienese owner’s daughter got shot and killed outside the Lucky Dragon. And the Lucky Phoenix was in debt after their accountant cooked the books and disappeared. Now Bossy’s leasing out the two joints to new Fuks.”
That explained the bleak and beat-down feel of the Lucky restaurants. They hadn’t been so lucky for the operators, first-generation Chinese immigrants in the South Bronx, more grist for the grind of ghetto crime.
Billy ordered another round of beers, snuffed out his cigarette butt. “The other two, China Village and Golden City,” Billy continued, “Bossy’s had them a long time. Guess they’re doing okay.”
Jack remembered the modified Chinatown-restaurant business models he’d visited. He finished his steak, recalling, Bossy Gee had two sons, one who joined the Marines, and another who joined the Black Dragons. One boy had a soldier’s dream; the other has a criminal record .
The beers arrived, and Jack decided to pace himself, figuring he’d have a long night ahead. Now he had even more questions than answers, and questions in Chinatown rarely led in just one direction. He knew it was too late to find Ah Por and decided to visit her in the morning with the knockoff wristwatch.
Someone started up the jukebox with Gloria Estefan’s “Cuts Both Ways.” It reminded him of Alexandra, but the warm and soft images of Alex naked in bed were crowded out by the memory of the cold and hard body on the refrigerated rack at the morgue.
He resisted the urge to call her.
“You hang out here,” Billy instructed. “I gotta close up the tofu shop. Then I’ll take the old Mustang outta Confucius, and we’ll go for a ride.”
“Where?” Jack asked skeptically.
“Didn’t you say Yao had gambling problems in the Bronx? You mentioned Fay Lo’s, right?”
“You know where Fay Lo’s is?”
“No, but I know how to get there.”
Jack shot him a you-must-be-high look.
“There’s a car, or minivan, that goes there,” Billy added.
“To Fay Lo’s?” Jack pressed.
“It’s like a junket, I hear. For the seniors, the old fart playas.” Billy grinned. “We can follow them.”
“Who?” Jack quizzed. “Where?”
“The minivan waits on Doyers. I think it’s a Ghost racket. Takes the old-timers to the tracks and titty bars, to Chinese gambling Bronx-style.” The Ghost Legion connection made Jack think about his onetime blood brother,
“So fast?”
“It’s symbolic, yo. You think anybody’s checking the ashes? They can bury him anytime. Whenever the cremation’s done. It’s all potter’s field anyways.”
“What time?”
“Nine to noon. They already posted an obit in the Chinese papers.”
“Ceremonial,” Jack observed. “What cemetery?”
“You gotta check with Wah Fook.” Billy seemed amused,watching Jack carve off pieces of Kim’s legendary rib eye, devouring them.
“Any other surprises?” Jack asked as they clanged the last of their beers. Billy chortled like a villain.
“You know those phone numbers on the menu paper?” Billy paused for effect as Jack waited for the punch line. “They’re restaurants all owned by Bossy Gee.”
B OSSY G EE lit up a few lights in Jack’s head. Prominent Chinatown businessman, big shot with the Hip Ching Association. Owns a bunch of Chinatown buildings . His family had a long local history, with connections to Hong Kong and Taiwan.
“The eight-eight-eight prefix on those restaurant numbers?” Billy offered. “Bossy’s idea. The Lucky Eights. Bot bot bot . The Triple Eights.”
Gamblers’ numbers, suckers’ payout . He wondered if it was all just coincidence. Bossy Gee had been investigated by the Organized Crime Control Bureau (OCCB) for alleged ties to local tongs . Bossy Gee was known as the black sheep of the Gees. Not surprising that the association wouldn’t want to get dragged into any of his endeavors.
“The Lucky Dragon and Lucky Phoenix he acquired in a fire sale. The previous Fukienese owner’s daughter got shot and killed outside the Lucky Dragon. And the Lucky Phoenix was in debt after their accountant cooked the books and disappeared. Now Bossy’s leasing out the two joints to new Fuks.”
That explained the bleak and beat-down feel of the Lucky restaurants. They hadn’t been so lucky for the operators, first-generation Chinese immigrants in the South Bronx, more grist for the grind of ghetto crime.
Billy ordered another round of beers, snuffed out his cigarette butt. “The other two, China Village and Golden City,” Billy continued, “Bossy’s had them a long time. Guess they’re doing okay.”
Jack remembered the modified Chinatown-restaurant business models he’d visited. He finished his steak, recalling, Bossy Gee had two sons, one who joined the Marines, and another who joined the Black Dragons. One boy had a soldier’s dream; the other has a criminal record .
The beers arrived, and Jack decided to pace himself, figuring he’d have a long night ahead. Now he had even more questions than answers, and questions in Chinatown rarely led in just one direction. He knew it was too late to find Ah Por and decided to visit her in the morning with the knockoff wristwatch.
Someone started up the jukebox with Gloria Estefan’s “Cuts Both Ways.” It reminded him of Alexandra, but the warm and soft images of Alex naked in bed were crowded out by the memory of the cold and hard body on the refrigerated rack at the morgue.
He resisted the urge to call her.
“You hang out here,” Billy instructed. “I gotta close up the tofu shop. Then I’ll take the old Mustang outta Confucius, and we’ll go for a ride.”
“Where?” Jack asked skeptically.
“Didn’t you say Yao had gambling problems in the Bronx? You mentioned Fay Lo’s, right?”
“You know where Fay Lo’s is?”
“No, but I know how to get there.”
Jack shot him a you-must-be-high look.
“There’s a car, or minivan, that goes there,” Billy added.
“To Fay Lo’s?” Jack pressed.
“It’s like a junket, I hear. For the seniors, the old fart playas.” Billy grinned. “We can follow them.”
“Who?” Jack quizzed. “Where?”
“The minivan waits on Doyers. I think it’s a Ghost racket. Takes the old-timers to the tracks and titty bars, to Chinese gambling Bronx-style.” The Ghost Legion connection made Jack think about his onetime blood brother,
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