Read Online Death Money by Henry Chang - Free Book Online Page B

picking the ponies. They were the last stragglers from the old bachelor generation lost in America.
    They reminded Jack of his pa, who had been buried for six months in the pastoral grounds of Evergreen Cemetery. The traditional Ching Ming grave-sweeping ceremonies would be observed by the Chinese in the coming weeks.
    The minivan crossed Chatham Square, went down Catherine Street to catch the FDR on South Street. Billy followed it, a few car lengths back. When they hit the highway, Billy turned on the dash radio, and the rock station blared out an old Steppenwolf number. Billy cranked up the radio, slapping the steering wheel and bellowing along with his own misunderstood lyrics:
    Roarin’ down the highway ,
    Cruising for adventure ,
    To whatever breaks our way …
    Jack allowed Billy his two minutes of wild man , figuring the song was ending. When it segued to a commercial, Jack turned off the radio and asked, “They run a van up every night?”
    “Not sure every night,” Billy answered. “But definitely weekends.”
    “Their gambling jones so bad they need to go to the Bronx?”
    “Yeah,” Billy said, keeping the minivan in sight. “Chinese love to gamble. It gives the working stiffs an excuse to hang out, have a few drinks, maybe score some pussy.”
    A one-night escape from the shackles of their lost China dreams .
    The lights across the East River danced, neon colors shimmering off the dark waters, the city lights of Brooklyn and Queens sparkling in the distance like a scattering of jewels. A full moon was frozen overhead.
    Cruising at sixty miles an hour, the Mustang rolled low to the blacktop, its mag wheels biting into the curves of the undulating highway. The outer boroughs flashed by on the other side of the river as the black car muscled its way north toward the Willis Avenue Bridge.
    Billy said, “You know what? You mentioned the Harlem River, right? My first thought, the niggas killed him. Or the spics. You know? The usual, ripping off the takeout boys. You know the deal. Chinese always getting fucked in the South Bronx, yo.”
    Jack didn’t offer a comment to that but knew he’d likely have to check in with the South Bronx precincts to see what the crime profile was against Asian Americans and also to get the lay of the land. Rob the guy, sure, but dump him in the river? What kind of gangbanger would go through that much trouble to rob a deliveryman?
    “Those motherfuckers,” Billy continued. “But I ain’t worried. I got my shit.” He patted the steel next to his ribs. “Punks don’t scare me.”
    “You packing?” Jack asked, alarmed.
    “Shit yeah .” Billy proudly flashed the gun inside his jacket. “Nine millimeter. Beretta . No boolshit.”
    “Fuck, Billy. You should have told me that before I got in the car.”
    “What the fuck? ”
    “You forget I’m a cop?”
    “You think I’m rollin’ dirty?” Billy spat back. “I’m licensed , brother. Permit to carry. Straight up. Would I compromise your ass? I’m hurt. I got a businessman’s license because I carry and transfer phat stacks of dollars to the bank. A lot of Chinatown merchants got carry permits.” He blew out a breath and kept the Mustang behind the minivan. “Wow … so all right?” he said with a smirk. “We cool?”
    Jack took a breath and nodded okay , but he’d have to watch out for Billy’s bad temper and his drinking. Not let him drive if he got anywhere near drunk. In the South Bronx, of all places.
    Jack rolled down the window and let the freezing wind buffet his face as they approached the Willis Avenue Bridge.
    “You still packing that thirty-eight?” Billy asked.
    “Yeah.”
    “You still carrying that shorty? For real? You kidding me. Every nigga with a nine out there, and you with that peashooter thirty-eight?”
    The minivan bounced in the distance.
    “Shit, Jacky, fourteen nines in a clip, against six thirty-eights? Damn, you must be high, whatever you’re thinking.”
    Jack had considered