Lucky Louie, Ghost dailo boss, who was useless to him now, lying in a coma at Downtown Medical.
“When?” asked Jack.
“I’ll be back in an hour,” Billy said as he left the booth.
The door slammed behind him, and the song on the jukebox ended. Grampa’s was quiet again as Jack tried to find some connection between Chinatown and the Chinese in the Bronx, tried to work his way back through the clues and the questions doing a lion dance in his head.
He’d heard all the usual hard-luck tales from waiters and kitchen help, Chinese workingmen who’d been seduced by the idea of luck —every poor man’s chance to be emperor—recklessly wagering two weeks’, even a month ’s pay on the nose of a horse or a dog, the flip of a card or the turn of a number.
The truth was they were desperate for luck, anguished over believing that they could change the miserable, hopeless cast of their low workingmen’s existence. They were gambling with their lives.
Finishing his beer, Jack pulled out his cell phone and called Alexandra. Her cheery greeting went to voice mail, and he hung up. He didn’t like not getting an answer, and he hated to leave personal messages. Insteadhe dropped some coins into the jukebox and waited for the song that had briefly brought him back to tender moments with Alex.
Muscle Mustang
B ILLY POWERED THE old Mustang out of the underground garage at Confucius Towers. It was only a few blocks to Grampa’s, but he made a right on Bowery, gassed up on Houston Street, and took a quick cruise through the mean streets of the Lower East Side. Another right, going east, and the streets were wet and black. He rolled through the extended settlements of Chiu Chaos, Malaysians, and Vietnamese, continuing east to Essex, crossing Delancey into areas once Jewish, then Puerto Rican, and now Fukienese Fuk Jo land.
He circled back toward Grampa’s, past the housing projects on South Street, quietly amused as he thought about Jack, his Chinatown friend, the jook sing cop who was conflicted about whether he was more American or more Chinese.
But it was never that complicated for Billy; all he had to do was look in the mirror. And in New York City, it never took much for someone to call you Chink and remind you who you were.
He’d been more than happy to help Jack, even happier now that the trail was leading to gambling and drinking and titty bars. It’d been a long time since he’d visited the Bronx anyway.
He patted the compact Beretta nine-millimeter semiautomatic pistol under his jacket and checked the dashboard lights as Grampa’s neon bar sign beckoned down East Broadway.
Rollin’ Dirty
J ACK STEPPED OUT of Grampa’s as the black Mustang pulled up. He opened the passenger door, saving Billy a rise out of the driver’s bucket seat. Muscle car , thought Jack, tinted windows, mag wheels, chrome runner . The car looked old, but the engine was growling like it’d been souped up. The worst kind of gang-boy getaway car you could drive through an anticrime sector and not expect to get stopped for drugs and weapons, especially in the South Bronx.
“Haven’t seen this car in a while,” Jack said, sliding into the passenger seat. “What happened to the Range Rover?”
“The ex-wife got the Rover, that bitch,” Billy spat out. “But this bad boy gets me where I need to go.”
“No doubt,” Jack agreed.
They drove behind Confucius Towers and turned off Bowery onto Pell Street. Billy killed the headlights before he made the sharp left onto Doyers, going slowly up the inclining street, and pulled over when he saw the minivan around the bend.
Two old men wearing oversized down jackets and hunting caps approached the minivan. They were joined by three other old men. The driver fired up his lights, popped the door, and waved the men in.
The seniors looked like restaurant workers—waiters and da jop kitchen help—the kind you’d see inside the homey little Chinatown coffee shops or at the local OTB
“When?” asked Jack.
“I’ll be back in an hour,” Billy said as he left the booth.
The door slammed behind him, and the song on the jukebox ended. Grampa’s was quiet again as Jack tried to find some connection between Chinatown and the Chinese in the Bronx, tried to work his way back through the clues and the questions doing a lion dance in his head.
He’d heard all the usual hard-luck tales from waiters and kitchen help, Chinese workingmen who’d been seduced by the idea of luck —every poor man’s chance to be emperor—recklessly wagering two weeks’, even a month ’s pay on the nose of a horse or a dog, the flip of a card or the turn of a number.
The truth was they were desperate for luck, anguished over believing that they could change the miserable, hopeless cast of their low workingmen’s existence. They were gambling with their lives.
Finishing his beer, Jack pulled out his cell phone and called Alexandra. Her cheery greeting went to voice mail, and he hung up. He didn’t like not getting an answer, and he hated to leave personal messages. Insteadhe dropped some coins into the jukebox and waited for the song that had briefly brought him back to tender moments with Alex.
Muscle Mustang
B ILLY POWERED THE old Mustang out of the underground garage at Confucius Towers. It was only a few blocks to Grampa’s, but he made a right on Bowery, gassed up on Houston Street, and took a quick cruise through the mean streets of the Lower East Side. Another right, going east, and the streets were wet and black. He rolled through the extended settlements of Chiu Chaos, Malaysians, and Vietnamese, continuing east to Essex, crossing Delancey into areas once Jewish, then Puerto Rican, and now Fukienese Fuk Jo land.
He circled back toward Grampa’s, past the housing projects on South Street, quietly amused as he thought about Jack, his Chinatown friend, the jook sing cop who was conflicted about whether he was more American or more Chinese.
But it was never that complicated for Billy; all he had to do was look in the mirror. And in New York City, it never took much for someone to call you Chink and remind you who you were.
He’d been more than happy to help Jack, even happier now that the trail was leading to gambling and drinking and titty bars. It’d been a long time since he’d visited the Bronx anyway.
He patted the compact Beretta nine-millimeter semiautomatic pistol under his jacket and checked the dashboard lights as Grampa’s neon bar sign beckoned down East Broadway.
Rollin’ Dirty
J ACK STEPPED OUT of Grampa’s as the black Mustang pulled up. He opened the passenger door, saving Billy a rise out of the driver’s bucket seat. Muscle car , thought Jack, tinted windows, mag wheels, chrome runner . The car looked old, but the engine was growling like it’d been souped up. The worst kind of gang-boy getaway car you could drive through an anticrime sector and not expect to get stopped for drugs and weapons, especially in the South Bronx.
“Haven’t seen this car in a while,” Jack said, sliding into the passenger seat. “What happened to the Range Rover?”
“The ex-wife got the Rover, that bitch,” Billy spat out. “But this bad boy gets me where I need to go.”
“No doubt,” Jack agreed.
They drove behind Confucius Towers and turned off Bowery onto Pell Street. Billy killed the headlights before he made the sharp left onto Doyers, going slowly up the inclining street, and pulled over when he saw the minivan around the bend.
Two old men wearing oversized down jackets and hunting caps approached the minivan. They were joined by three other old men. The driver fired up his lights, popped the door, and waved the men in.
The seniors looked like restaurant workers—waiters and da jop kitchen help—the kind you’d see inside the homey little Chinatown coffee shops or at the local OTB
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