"Them?' he said, leaning in across the table.
"Sixteen of them actually. With military tattoos. National Security turned two of them and the others fell into place. They're wanted by the Chinese military police, and Federal's going to turn them over."
"Flight deportation?"
"Full Air Force escort." She cut a small smile as the drinks arrived.
"Banzai." He grinned, clinking his beer against her Kamikaze, both of them gulping the drinks.
"Thanks," he said quietly. "Must be a little disappointing to you, since you see them as victims, people you feel a calling to defend and protect."
Alexandra swirled the ice in her glass.
"You mean as compared to how you see them, as perils, Chinese who prey on other Chinese? And since your calling obligates you to take them off the streets?"
"We don't see them the same way," Jack agreed, "but that doesn't make either of us wrong."
Alex nodded, "But sometimes it puts us on different sides."
Jack looked away. "We can still be friends."
"Friends, sure," she answered.
They shook hands, his firm grip covering the soft squeeze of her hand. There was a momentary twinkle in her eyes before she looked away.
"There's some split public opinion about sending the others back," she said. "If we don't take the Cubans, or the Haitians, we can't take the Chinese."
Jack nodded, let her run on.
"But Clinton's got to take a stand on Human Rights somewhere, especially after Tiananmen Square. Send a message to Comrade Deng."
Jack grinned.
"It's a tough call," she continued. "There's a pro-life movement stirring in Congress. The Right wants to keep them, use them as a symbol. Could be a long wait. But my guess is they'll stay."
There was a pause. They exhaled smoke toward each other, and she drained her drink. Ordered another. Even in the dim light he could see the color coming hard into her face. He didn't want to ask about the husband, the situation, didn't want to open up that conversation.
He watched her work the second Kamikaze, giving him a glance that was slowly coming unfocused.
She lit another cigarette, softened her tone. "Look, I know you're busy," she said. "This godfather from Pell Street who got killed, it's all over the news."
"Yeah, got us all running around in circles."
"Must be difficult for you."
"You know how Chinatown works."
"Not that, I mean getting justice for a victim you know is organized crime."
"I'd rather leave that judgment to a jury. Someone kills someone, they got to pay. That's the law."
"The law, yeah, I know something about that. So how's the investigation going?"
"People are watching their tongues. Except for you and some fifty-year-old police records, I can't find a bad word anywhere."
"It's too soon. People are eulogizing him, they're showing respect. Maybe after the funeral."
Jack's winced. "By then, my killer's out of the country."
She gave him a curious look, excused herself to the ladies' room. He paid the bill before she returned.
"Thanks for the drinks," she said on the way out. "I had you wrong. You're a decent guy and you know the score."
"Fair enough," Jack smiled. "Thanks for your help."
She flagged a cab, stepped off the curb, puzzled a moment before reaching into her handbag, producing a business card. Luen Hop Kwok, the United National, was embossed across the card. At the bottom, Vincent Chin, reporter.
"Call him," she said. Then she ran her fingers sweetly across his cheek before kissing him, got into the cab, slammed the door.
Jack stood watching the rear window rolling away, Alexandra's face a sad smile under the lamp light. He moved toward the backstreets, resigning himself to the Federal guys coming in and sucking up the whole mess. He couldn't complain. He had a bigger headache throbbing right behind his eyes.
News
The copy from the Daily News was translated into the Chinese language dailies, which also added sidebars about the crowning achievements in the revered leader's life: he raised money for the Chinatown Daycare Center, operated a fund for widows and orphans, organized food and clothing donations to the needy, the elderly, the infirm. He was a Chinese saint.
The Hip things posted a fifty-thousand-dollar reward for information.
Jack tossed through the newspapers, knew he had to go beyond the machinations of the press, find what wasn't being written, neighborhood gossip and speculation not fit for print. He wanted unsubstantiated chatter from old women, the words of whores, of shiftless men in smoky coffee shops. The backstreets led him toward White Street, where he flipped the business card, and called Vincent Chin.
Chinatown's oldest newspaper, the United National, was located on White Street, nestled down behind the Tombs Detention Facility and the Federal buildings across from the Men's Mission.
The paper operated out of a renovated storefront in a building that was once a warehouse, a five-story brickfaced structure with ornate iron columns framing fire-escapes that jagged across the front exposure.
The National had a staff of twenty that included pressmen, reporters, editors, photographers, and managers. Compared to the other major Chinese dailies, it couldn't claim the highest circulation, or the lowest newsstand price. In fact, the National was the only paper without a color section, the only Chinese newspaper that still typeset by hand the thousand Chinese characters it needed to go to print. They had special typewriters for the different fonts, other machines for headlines and captions.
The United National sold for forty cents a copy and appeared on the newsstands every day but Sunday.
The Nationalwas Chinatown's hometown paper.
It had been Pa's favorite, his only newspaper.
Clue
Vincent Chin said in bilingual-accented English, "What we're not writing is that Big Uncle had a mistress, that the killing was a Hakka drug deal that got twisted somehow. It's hearsay. We can't prove it, we can't print it."
Jack kept fishing. "Other enemies? A double cross?"
"Some people suspect the Ghosts, others say the Dragons, or the Fuk Ching. It's Chinatown fantasy as far as I'm concerned."
"What about the mistress?"
"It's gossip. Someone spotted her in a gambling house. But no one's come forward with a picture, an address, or a body."
"If you had a mistress, wouldn't you keep it hushed up?"
"Yes, but it's Chinatown. You can't shut down loose talk. That's all it is."
"How'd you hear?"
"People call up. You can't imagine the calls we got."
"That's why I'm here." Jack checked his watch, almost nine p.m. "Was it a man who called, or a woman?"
"A man," Vincent said. "Does it matter?"
"I don't know." Jack left his cop card on the typewriter. "But if there's anything else you can think of…"
"I'll call you, or Alex."
"Perfect. Thanks for your time," Jack said, and shook Chin's hand.
Outside, Jack took a deep swallow of the cool night air and trailed the backstreets of Chinatown, letting murder and motive tumble around in his head. When no answers fell out, he took a long look at the basements running down Mott Street under colored neon lights, and remembered Tat "Lucky" Louie.