There is a crash of black and white across Jack's forehead, blood from the gash running into his eye, as he watches Wing dropped by a chopping right hand, the color of red wine suddenly spreading across Wing's white T-shirt. Tat is screaming, and the Yings are beating the shit out of him.
Then everything is black, filled with the wails of a family overcome with grief. Racks of flowers fail to brighten a room cloaked in the choking odor of incense and death.
Wing is laid out in the casket and mourners are bowing, bowing, bowing, and burning death money. Tat is speechless and Jack watches him flee the funeral parlor as Wing's mother explodes with grief.
The sound of gunfire awoke him, yelling and shooting in the connecting back alley that led out to Mott Street. In the dark of Pa's apartment he could not tell what time it was, only that it was still black outside. More gunshots and screaming. He groped for his Colt Special, found it, and crept out onto the stairwell landing.
From the hallway window, he could see shadows and figures darting through the alleyway. He slapped out the hallway bulb with the gun barrel, crouched to observe the action below. But in another instant, it was quiet again. When he climbed down the fire escape into the alleyway, they were all gone, only a few spent shell casings on the ground and the burnt smell of gunpowder in the dark air. No bodies, and too dark to see if there had been bloodshed. He tried to shake the grogginess from his head, his adrenaline rush subsiding now, leaving a ferric taste in his mouth.
Back in Pa's apartment he sat upright on the bed and closed his eyes. Sleep didn't return and he reached for the flask and tilted it, but it barely wet his lips now. He picked up the gourd, shook it, refilled the flask with mao-tai. Then he found the keys to his Fury and went back out into the deadness of night.
The City
The streets were wet, black.
The midnight-blue Dodge Fury sat on the corner of Mott and Bayard, a police permit on the dash visible through the windshield. No one was on the street when Jack slipped inside, started it up, let it idle while he fired up a cigarette, letting it burn halfway down before he slowly pulled away from the sidewalk, heading toward the East Side.
He rolled through the extended communities of Fukienese, Malaysians, Chin Chaos, settlements stretching east to Essex and north to Delancey, into areas longtime Hassidic, Puerto Rican.
Whenever he cruised the neighborhoods, he thought of the boyhood Tat and Wing and he had shared. They were workingclass Chinatown boys, but they were also Manhattan boys, who stayed mostly in the borough and came of age trolling through the various ethnic neighborhoods: Little Italy, the Village, Soho, Tribeca, Chelsea. When they ventured into Brooklyn or Queens, it was usually on the snake that roared through the subway tunnel, always a dusty noisy death march to get anywhere.
He used to like cruising the old places, remembering the year Tat got a used Volkswagen and they bombed around town, wolfing at girls.
Manhattan was twenty-two square miles and if he took his time, he'd cover it in two hours. He needed the air, needed to clear the alcohol from his head. The perspective from the driver's seat was a bittersweet pleasure to him.
He continued east.
The Greater Chinatown Dream, the Nationalists had called it: an all-yellow district in lower Manhattan running from the Battery to Fourteenth street, river to river, east to west, by the year 2000.
Then he turned the car north and made all the green lights through loisaida, the Lower East Side, past the Welfare Projectsthe Wagner, Rutgers, Baruch, Gouverneur-federally subsidized highrises, which ran along the East River, blocs of buildings that stood out like racial fortresses. Blacks in the Smith Houses, Latinos in the Towers.
That's how the Lower East Side really was, not a melting pot but a patchwork quilt of different communities of people coexisting, sometimes with great difficulty.
Manhattan was symbolic of the rest of Gotham, the Big City, where the best walked the streets alongside the worst.
When the red light caught him, he was already past Alphabet City, in that part of the East Village where the druggie nation came to score: smoke, crack, rocks, pharmaceuticals, and a brand of Mott Street H tagged China Cat, so potent and poisonous it had sent twelve of the hardcore straight to junkie heaven in August, keeping the Ninth Precinct narcs tossing.
He powered down the window, kept the car headed north through Gramercy Park and Murray Hill, the wind buffeting his face, past the lights and shops of Midtown, the neighborhoods tonier now. He imagined the air was cleaner. Sutton Place. Beekman Place. The arriviste strongholds of the Upper East Side.
He drove through El Barrio, Spanish Harlem, the decay suddenly evident here, and crossed over above the Park at 110th, going west toward Morningside Heights and the enclave of Dominicans, a drug-dealing hub that connected New York, Connecticut, NewJersey. He paused on the Heights, long enough for another smoke, viewing the city spread out below him. The city was dying. One murder every three hours. One rape every hour and a half. One robbery every four minutes. An aggravated assault every six minutes. A motor vehicle theft every three minutes.
There was a new governor and the death penalty was coming home.
The city was dying. He saw it every time he drove through the old neighborhoods. Saw it in the blacked-out windows of abandoned graffitied tenements, in sinking potholed streets and garbagestrewn parks. He felt it every time he heard the sirens of the patrols, the ambulances, the fire trucks, day and night, relentless. He heard it in the voices of the homeless, crying, begging, threatening. Death. It touched him every time he smelled the sewage on the waterfront, the choking urine stench of the subways. Old neighborhoods that had survived the World Wars and Depression years but could not survive crack and heroin.
Dope, he figured. Dope and despair feeding the death of the darkening city.
Farther south he slashed across the blackness of Harlem, the Thirtieth Precinct sitting in the valley where the island went flat, rose, and fell again, until he came to the highway.
It was only then, cruising back down along the Harlem River Drive, that the feeling caught up to him. He didn't know if what he felt was guilt, filling his soul with sadness, breaking through the hardness in his heart, the price of growing tip an only child and without a mother's love. Perhaps, he thought, it was the finality of being alone, absolutely, without family now, after only a week, the Yu bloodline trapped, ending, with him. Perhaps, with Pa's passing, he was feeling his own mortality.
The lights across the river danced as he came south down the undulating highway, became misty as the tears flooded up behind his eyes. He blinked and the tears ran down the hotness of his cheeks, his breathing suddenly quick and heavy, a shuddering inside him.
He wiped a sleeve across his face, caught his breath as he turned on the dashboard radio, coming to the cutoff at Canal Street, the lights of Chinatown winking in the distance.
He twisted up the volume.
The rap anthem crashed out of the radio, violent and angry, and he mashed the pedal to the metal, the Fury screeching up Canal the same way he was beginning to feel.
Freedom
The China Plaza was a modern elevator building, fifteen stories of beige and gray brick with lanai balconies, shoehorned in between turn-of-the-century Chinatown tenements and the foot of the Manhattan Bridge.