Jack stepped in and filled his view, took Lucky's gaze with him back to the small, grimy table.
Lucky put the fork down butJack spoke first. "I'm looking for a hitter, maybe fifty years old. Big guy, bald head, good with his hands. Shoots a big piece, a Nine. Gotta be from Chinatown."
"Tall man, right?" Lucky knew. "They call him Golo. Enforcer for the Big Uncle. Connected to the societies in Hong Kong. Hung kwun, bloody stick, all that shit."
"Sounds like you ain't a true believer."
"Red Circle Triad, big deal. It's all hocus-pocus to us. We don't give a shit here. We got the juice. Hey, Hong Kong's the fuckin' other side of the world, right?"
Jack nodded. "So where the fuck is he?"
"What do I look like? That guy on TV, the fuckin' Shell AnswerMan?" Lucky spit out. "And not for nothing, Jacky, but don't come here like this next time, okay? It don't look good, us together."
Jack looked behind him, saw the Ghosts in the park, got tip. "Tomorrow morning, after the funeral," he said walking out.
"Upstairs."
Dirge
The funeral was an elaborate affair befitting a leader of Uncle Four's stature in the Hip Ching hierarchy. A hundred black limousines shut down traffic for ten blocks all around Chinatown. All the radio-car boys were hired, their Towne Cars and Continentals trailing the Fleetwood flower-wagons, overflowing with wreaths and bouquets from every Chinatown florist.
Through the gray morning rain, the procession was led by a fleet of Cadillac Calais-class cars, which only the Chao Funeral House used, the owner having won the fleet from a heroin importer fronting as a car dealership. The line of cars was wet and dark, shimmering in the drizzle, like a long black snake curling its way through Chinatown. It stopped momentarily at the Hip Ching Association, then at Confucius Towers where Uncle Four had resided. At each stop a funeral band played a plaintive dirge, and groups of Chinese women mourners whimpered together in the same tone, forming a low wail that sounded like the buzzing of bees.
On Mott Street the entire Ghost Legion wore black, two hundred members forming a shadowy wedge under the ominous sky. Local residents stood with their heads huddled together under umbrellas, like a sea of black bobbing mushrooms.
Fox News set up alongside Channel Seven, amid a phalanx of photographers from the dailies, who were perched on top of folding stepladders. The Federal boys-DEA, FBI, Treasuryhid openly in a brown Ford van with blacked-out windows, cameras whirring behind them. Conspicuous agents trying to look inconspicuous.
Jack stood on the corner of Bayard Street behind black sunglasses and watched as the last chapter of the old man's life unfolded.
What about the girlfriend? He flexed against the bandage the hospital had patched over his bicep, felt a dull stinging burn. The trail was twisting, getting colder, and he began to feel like he was losing it.
From translucent sky came a fine mist falling upon the scatter of umbrellas.
Then Lucky stepped out from among the Legion, blowing smoke, his sunglass eyes watching Jack scoping the procession. Lucky felt their eyes meeting, even behind the dark lenses, knew the cops were plodding around searching for leads. He laughed inside his head. Somebody caps a big shot, they gonna hang around? He scanned the Legion, an impressive show of solidarity even though he knew some people suspected a double cross. The truce? Up in the air. Until a perpetrator turned up.
He turned his attention back to Jack.
Jack was gone.
Now with horns blaring, the end of the long black procession cleared the red signal at the end of Mott Street and cruised out of sight.
Lucky crushed out his cigarette and left the street, a tide of black draining with him.
Warnings
Lucky stepped onto the Mott Street rooftop, Jack behind him.
"A long time since I been up here," Lucky said, scanning the city of rooftops, a cloud shadow passing beneath the wet sky. "So what the fuck is happening with you? How's the old man?"
"Buried him two weeks ago," Jack answered.
"Too bad how shit happens." Lucky frowned. "My old man, be better off dead. Fuckin' drunk waste of life."
They avoided each other's eyes.
"Anyway," Lucky spat out, "what's up? You didn't get me up here for old time's sake."
Jack saw the Brooklyn Bridge, the Lower Manhattan skyline. He said, without looking at Lucky, "You did me a solid. I owe you, so listen good to what I'm going to say."
Lucky shrugged his shoulders, listened.
"This is some heavy shit you're involved with. You think you're going to last forever? Remember Kid Taiwan? Mongo Jo? Riki Baby? All the dailo, big brothers, before you? They all thought they were big-time, like no one could touch them."
The Seaport, Brooklyn in the distance.
"They're all doing Federal time, Tat. Chinaman time. Everybodylooking-to-fuck you-over time. Time you get out, your dick will be too old to work."
He watched as Lucky smirked, flared up a cigarette, said, "If you're so concerned, just drop a dime, but let me know when they're coming for me."
Jack's eyes settled on the monolithic hulk of the Tombs Detention Facility.
"Can't do that, Lucky," he said in a voice like cool steel, "even if I knew."
Lucky mixed his words with cigarette smoke. "Don't bullshit me, man. You know the deal. The way you set up the Fuk Chings with the Feds, I know you got the juice."
Stroking me, Jack thought, running his knuckles across his eyebrows.
'just get out of the life before they come. Get out now. Yesterday. That's all I can tell you and I won't say it again."
"Thanks for nothing," Lucky sneered, "but I'll take my chances." He came close enough for the smoke accompanying his words to touch Jack's face.
"When Wing died, I learned two things. One, the only way to get anything is to take it. The only way you get respect is through power. Those who don't have power get out of Chinatown or they stay slaves. Second, the cops don't make a difference. They're just gwailo micks and guineas strolling the streets like they own the fuckin' place, call everybody chingchong wingwong, get a good laugh, right? You know it. They goof off for eight hours, write a few traffic tickets, then slide to the bar and swap Chinaman jokes. You remember, don't you? Cat fried lice? Tomaine lo mein? Hahaha. Fuckin' white bullneck mamalukes too dumb to do college end up as cops. Well, fuck that, and fuck them. We own the streets, not them. See, to me, to the boys, Chinatown is our life. Not a job, not a paycheck. Every minute, every day, we're here to stay."
Jack let him run on, enjoying it.
"Outside of here, we can't be nothing. But here, we can make enough money to be kings."
"Or die trying, right?"
"Try not to die trying," Lucky snapped back, crushing the cigarette into the roof wall. "You got a bug up your ass or what? You think you're Batman? Do good? Fight the gangs? Ha. Remember, Igot even for Wing. Not you. Not the cops. My boys took the Yings off the street. Forever. You know it, we took over."