said when Jack walked in.
“Okay, so you speak English,” challenged Jack. “Why are you pretending?”
“I wasn’t! No disrespect. But the white cop was outta line. I didn’t want to talk to him the way he was playing me.”
“So you spoke to him in Chinglish ?”
“And I asked for you.”
“You know me?” Jack asked bluntly.
“I’m cousin of the Jung twins,” said the young man.
Jack narrowed his eyes at him, said, “Yeah, and …?”
“You know, they got themselves killed in that shoot-out at Bowery? Near OTB? Your case; it was in the papers.”
“Go on,” pushed Jack.
“The cop pulled me over, near the bridge. Said I didn’t signal the lane change, something. He checked my plates. Then he started talking crap about how the Red Sox suck and made me get out of the car. The other cop lifted my jacket off the front seat and saw the knife.”
“What the hell are you doing with that?” pressed Jack.
“I work in a warehouse. We use it on the job.”
Jack poked his finger at the red ball cap, and said, “Boston, huh? What’re you doing down here?”
“I came up for the hundred days.”
“Hundred days?”
“Go to the cemetery, you know, pay respects. My two cousins . You’re Chinese. You know, you understand. ”
Jack remembered: the Jung twins, victims of the brazen shoot-out between factions of Lucky’s Ghosts. The “hundred days” after the burial, when Chinese people visit the deceased, was an ancient tradition.
“Well, they can charge you with carrying a concealed weapon,” warned Jack.
“What concealed? It was on the front seat. We keep it out to cut ropes and cartons, for deliveries.”
“The officer says it was in your jacket.”
“No way! I took my jacket off in the car. It was hot and I put it on the seat. It may have been covering the knife but I wouldn’t call it hidden .”
Jack shook his head disdainfully.
“No, man, no,” pleaded the kid. “It wasn’t concealed. And I wasn’t carrying it.”
Jack remained stone-faced. “If they press it, you’re looking at a coupla nights in the Tombs. Maybe Rikers.”
The Boston Chinese started pumping his knee, nervous, fearful because the Chinese cop wasn’t helping him.
“Then you’d need to raise bail,” Jack added, “and your Boston shit is going to get screwed by your being busted in New York. At the very least, you’d have a lot of explaining to do back home.”
“Look, help me out, huh?” Desperate now.
“Tell me why I should,” Jack challenged. “Because we’re Chinese?” Raising the ante. “Because what?”
“Because I got something that maybe can help you?”
“Yeah, and what’s that?”
“There’s someone missing from that shoot-out. A punk-ass named Eddie, right?” There was a hopeful tone in his voice.
“How do you know that ?” asked Jack, raising an eyebrow.
“He’s with the dailo ’s crew. And no one’s seen him since.”
Jack was quiet a moment. He’d suspected that Eddie Ng had been one of the shooters, but it was all circumstantial.
“So you know where he is?”
“Something like that.”
“Don’t fuck with me, boy,” snapped Jack.
“Help me out?”
“Talk,” Jack waited.
“He’s from Seattle.” The kid’s words followed a deep sigh. “My cousin mentioned it last year.” Both of his knees were pumping now.
“Where in Seattle?”
“That’s all I know. Chinatown, maybe.”
“Maybe? There’s a lot of Chinese in Seattle, boy.”
“That’s all I know. Please.”
Jack shook his head in disbelief, and left the kid in the room. The uniformed cop gave Jack the kid’s driver’s license while he sweated it out. Jack took the information and ran it for priors and warrants as he reviewed the OTB shoot-out case file.
The reports had tallied up six dead near OTB; five were confirmed Ghost gangbangers, and the sixth was an old Chinese man who’d happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time and caught himself a cardiac.
The final
“Okay, so you speak English,” challenged Jack. “Why are you pretending?”
“I wasn’t! No disrespect. But the white cop was outta line. I didn’t want to talk to him the way he was playing me.”
“So you spoke to him in Chinglish ?”
“And I asked for you.”
“You know me?” Jack asked bluntly.
“I’m cousin of the Jung twins,” said the young man.
Jack narrowed his eyes at him, said, “Yeah, and …?”
“You know, they got themselves killed in that shoot-out at Bowery? Near OTB? Your case; it was in the papers.”
“Go on,” pushed Jack.
“The cop pulled me over, near the bridge. Said I didn’t signal the lane change, something. He checked my plates. Then he started talking crap about how the Red Sox suck and made me get out of the car. The other cop lifted my jacket off the front seat and saw the knife.”
“What the hell are you doing with that?” pressed Jack.
“I work in a warehouse. We use it on the job.”
Jack poked his finger at the red ball cap, and said, “Boston, huh? What’re you doing down here?”
“I came up for the hundred days.”
“Hundred days?”
“Go to the cemetery, you know, pay respects. My two cousins . You’re Chinese. You know, you understand. ”
Jack remembered: the Jung twins, victims of the brazen shoot-out between factions of Lucky’s Ghosts. The “hundred days” after the burial, when Chinese people visit the deceased, was an ancient tradition.
“Well, they can charge you with carrying a concealed weapon,” warned Jack.
“What concealed? It was on the front seat. We keep it out to cut ropes and cartons, for deliveries.”
“The officer says it was in your jacket.”
“No way! I took my jacket off in the car. It was hot and I put it on the seat. It may have been covering the knife but I wouldn’t call it hidden .”
Jack shook his head disdainfully.
“No, man, no,” pleaded the kid. “It wasn’t concealed. And I wasn’t carrying it.”
Jack remained stone-faced. “If they press it, you’re looking at a coupla nights in the Tombs. Maybe Rikers.”
The Boston Chinese started pumping his knee, nervous, fearful because the Chinese cop wasn’t helping him.
“Then you’d need to raise bail,” Jack added, “and your Boston shit is going to get screwed by your being busted in New York. At the very least, you’d have a lot of explaining to do back home.”
“Look, help me out, huh?” Desperate now.
“Tell me why I should,” Jack challenged. “Because we’re Chinese?” Raising the ante. “Because what?”
“Because I got something that maybe can help you?”
“Yeah, and what’s that?”
“There’s someone missing from that shoot-out. A punk-ass named Eddie, right?” There was a hopeful tone in his voice.
“How do you know that ?” asked Jack, raising an eyebrow.
“He’s with the dailo ’s crew. And no one’s seen him since.”
Jack was quiet a moment. He’d suspected that Eddie Ng had been one of the shooters, but it was all circumstantial.
“So you know where he is?”
“Something like that.”
“Don’t fuck with me, boy,” snapped Jack.
“Help me out?”
“Talk,” Jack waited.
“He’s from Seattle.” The kid’s words followed a deep sigh. “My cousin mentioned it last year.” Both of his knees were pumping now.
“Where in Seattle?”
“That’s all I know. Chinatown, maybe.”
“Maybe? There’s a lot of Chinese in Seattle, boy.”
“That’s all I know. Please.”
Jack shook his head in disbelief, and left the kid in the room. The uniformed cop gave Jack the kid’s driver’s license while he sweated it out. Jack took the information and ran it for priors and warrants as he reviewed the OTB shoot-out case file.
The reports had tallied up six dead near OTB; five were confirmed Ghost gangbangers, and the sixth was an old Chinese man who’d happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time and caught himself a cardiac.
The final
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