"He had stomach problems the last two years. We were fortunate to get extra term life insurance." She sniffed, accepted tissues from Loo je.
"There was a whole life policy he had for forty years and he felt it wasn't enough. He had a daughter also, you must know."
Jack knew, but it wasn't any help.
"Where is she?" he asked.
"She's attending college in SaamFansi, at USF, but she's returning tonight."
Easy enough, he thought, to check her class schedule and call her professors, to verify her alibi.
"Where was he yesterday?"
"It was Double Ten. He had affairs to attend, with the Association: dinner, reception. He wasn't home until after ten."
"Could you be more precise?"
"I was in bed, but I heard him lock the door."
"When did you actually see him last?"
"We had breakfast this morning. He went out about eleven."
"Did he say he was meeting someone?"
"No, he never discussed his private business with me." She started sobbing again.
He produced the ring of keys."These were in his pocket. Are they the keys to this apartment?"
She took a closer look.
"I'm not sure," she said. "My set is on the tray, on the stand by the door."
He went over and sized them up. Her set of three, in a leather case, was also stamped Kong, and was a perfect match. He came back to her.
"These other three," he asked, "are they for here?"
"No." Her breath was short, quick. "Perhaps the Association."
"Ah sir," Loo je said sternly, "she must rest now. There are long hours ahead, and she needs to be strong."
Mak mui stood up, supporting the unsteady widow.
Jack again offered his condolences, gave Tam tai his police card and left them. When the door closed behind him he heard the sudden burst of wailing within, the g-wa foo, widow, dowager, anguishing for her lo gung, husband.
Old Men
Jack turned the corner onto Pell, going in the direction of the Hip Ching clubhouse. Long ago, the storefront clubhouse was where the Hip Chings had kept the cleavers, the long knives, axes and hammers, an occasional pistol. It was from there that they would strike out, across Doyer, the Bloody Angle, bow how doy-hatchet men-searching for On Yee fighters on the other side of Mott.
Now, the older members gathered here to meet, play mahjong, gossip, make assorted deals with the Chings' Credit Union. They no longer kept weapons there. The gang boys were packing them now, strapped on, outside on the streets.
Jack stepped into the storefront, into the dimly lit fluorescent space with wooden chairs lining the green walls. A partition closed off the back of the place. The clubhouse was empty, not even the old man sweeper who usually hung around chain smoking cigarettes, waiting for tips, was there. They must have seen the chaai to-cop-coming, Jack figured, must have exited the back door, to meet again at the Association, or in one of the coffee shops they operated.
Their little game didn't faze Jack. He was sure he'd find the old men soon enough. They were, after all, obligated to stick around for the funeral. He began to wonder if the murder was an On Yee double cross, and spent an hour working the dingy little coffee shops, leaving behind his bilingual calling card, seeking clues he knew would turn up in more than one language.
The entrance to the Hip Ching Benevolent Association was a gold-colored tile pagoda on top of cast bronze doors that opened to a red stairway leading up. Inside, the furniture was all black Taiwanese mahogany with crimson cushions flattened by the weight of old men.
The Hip Ching big shots said nothing of value to Jack, feigned ignorance because face overwhelmed everything else. How could they mention the mistress and dishonor their leader and his family in this cycle of grieving?
"Could it have been a grudge from the old days?" Jack asked.
"Everyone from the old days is dead. He was the last."
Jack showed them the keys.
"Except for the front, downstairs, our doors have no locks," one of the elders said. "There is a safe, but it has a combination lock. At any rate, Uncle wasn't involved in everyday affairs, only special events."
The old men could have saved Jack some time by continuing to dummy up. Instead, they offered up the Fuk Chou: Fukienese, newcomers, outsiders, troublemakers, claiming they were robbing Association member businesses at the outer edge of Chinatown. Uncle Four had issued warnings to them but had received only mocking derision in return. Ho daai dom, ballsy, those Fuk Ching kai dais, shitheads.
Jack had the uneasy feeling that he was being manipulated, but he thanked the old men, playing them the way they played him, the chaai lo-cop. They each shook his hand on the way out. Patted him on the back. Wished him good fortune. Outside the double doors, on the street, Jack smelled kitchen aromas venting into the sunset air, the restaurants firing up their woks for the dinner crush. He felt a gnawing hunger, but forced himself to isolate probable motives: money, or revenge. Or both. Forty-eight hours had passed, the trail was getting cold. He had the feeling that the killer had already bounced, and the only keys around weren't opening up any new doors.
Fuks
Carved with broad strokes into the black wooden board and gilded over with gold leaf, the Chinese characters announced Fuk Chou Village Benevolent Association. Beneath the sign the double door opened into a small office with a large window, looking out over East Broadway where it intersected with Pike below, Essex at the far corner.
The Chinese man behind the metal desk evaded Jack's questions, occasionally glancing at the video security monitor that focused on the door and the street below. The man was about sixty, balding, with an officious and gracious manner that began to sour the more Jack talked.
"We know," Jack said, "you run a gambling operation downstairs, in the back."
"Then you know," the man answered, "we paid this month already. What did you think, because you're Chinese you get an extra share?"
"Look, Uncle, a bigshot was murdered. Some voices say the Fuk Ching are responsible."
"You chaai lo are all the same, running dogs trying to squeeze more juice from hard-working brothers."
The words grated on Jack, made him hot under the collar. "I can subpoena your members, your records," he threatened.
The man grinned. "There is nothing to see, no one to speak to. We have nothing to hide."
Jack kept his poker face on.
"I can shut down the Twenty-Eight," he said.
The man whitened, glared at him.
"I see now, the Ghost Legion pays your salary."
Jack leaned in, said in a hard whisper, "Be careful, old man, your words may hang you one day."
The man looked out the window.
"First you send your punks to rob us, then comes the cop to finish it."
Jack's eyes widened. "There was no robbery report."
"Report what? To bring more dogs running?"
Jack's look devoured the man, but he said nothing. There was a long silence between them, then Jack pushed out of his chair and brushed back the side of his jacket, hand on his hip, exposing the Colt in the holster there.
A look of fear crossed the man's face.
Jack grinned, wagged a finger at him, said, "You have a sharp tongue for an old man. Careful you don't cut yourself," He turned and left the office, quick-stepped down the stairs.
If it wasn't a Fuk Ching execution, he was thinking, then it had to involve a double cross.