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of the sing-song accent he offered to patrons of his restaurant.
    The man named Lau, New York’s largest importer of jade and ivory, spoke in his cracked old-man’s voice. “The word in the street is that the attack was carried out by members of the Wee Ching gang, an offshoot of the Ghost Shadows. The Shadows, as you all know, are affiliated with our rival tong across the street.”
    “ If the Shadows themselves had carried out the attack,” said one of the men named Lee, “it would be clear that our rival tong was responsible.” Lee owned textile factories employing Chinese immigrants under sweatshop conditions, and he was the oldest man in the room, eighty-one.
    Another Lee, a landlord, owner of most of the buildings on Pell Street, murmured, “But we cannot be sure who ordered the attack, or even why. It is simply not clear.”
    Ting said, “It is difficult to see how to react appropriately. And in any case, to react directly against our rival tong would be bad for business. There has been too much violence in Chinatown lately. It has affected all of us. Tourists are afraid to come to Chinatown. Receipts have fallen in many of our businesses. We all hold shares in gambling places and whatnot, and receipts there have fallen too. Although our own people still frequent these places, Filipinos, Japanese, Koreans and others from uptown are becoming afraid to enter Chinatown. The violence must stop.”
    Setting down his teacup, Koy glanced at each of the old men around the table. “I think all of us are missing the point,” he said. “Last night’s attack must be seen as a serious loss of face for our tong, and also, I am sorry to add, for our leader, Mr. Ting. You other men are much older than I am. You have been here longer.” Koy spoke with great deliberateness, manifesting, at least outwardly, the exquisite Chinese courtesy that was expected of a younger man when addressing his elders. “My respect for men of heaped-up years - men such as yourselves - is very great. But I must suggest that it is time for us to consider a more vigorous leadership.”
    The unspeakable had been spoken, and silence descended upon the room.
    “There is considerable justification in the words of Mr. Koy,” said Lau, the importer of jade and ivory, at last.
    “Mr. Koy, you’ve been here how long, five years?” said one of the two men named Hong. He wore thick glasses, and was nearly blind. He had arthritis, and had had to be helped to his chair by his man, who waited outside. He owned ships that sailed from New York and San Francisco to Taiwan and Hong Kong; he was the richest man in the room apart, possibly, from Koy himself. “And formerly, in Hong Kong, you were a policeman. You came here, you observed the tradition of the red envelopes, and within a year became secretary of our tong. It is perhaps better now if you await additional seasoning and experience before advancing further.”
    A number of heads nodded agreement.
    “I would of course observe the tradition of the red envelopes again,” murmured Koy.
    On both sides of the table, men began whispering to each other in Cantonese dialect. Only Ting at the head of the table sat stock-still. He had been staring at Koy for some minutes, and continued to do so.
    Ah, thought Koy, noting this, the subtlety of my plan becomes clear to him. He knows but doesn’t know. He is sure, but cannot be sure.
    The whispering ended.
    “Whoever heads our association becomes known to our people, and to the city at large, as the mayor of Chinatown,” said the elder Hong. “It is a position accomplished with honor by Mr. Ting for the last twenty years.”
    “It is no loss of face for Mr. Ting,” suggested Koy piously, “to step down after so many honorable years.”
    Ting rose to his feet, bowed toward each side of the table, and left the room. Since he was himself the subject under discussion, his presence, according to. Chinese custom, had become discourteous. And partly also, his