Did Bossy pay off the family, or threaten them?
“Rumor has it that Bossy’s wife wanted a divorce,” Vincent said. “But he refused. Eventually she moved back to family in Taiwan. Guess she felt that she’d lost face and didn’t wanted to hear Chinatown gossip.”
Two small news items were taped together. One featured an honor guard of old Chinese veterans from the local American Legion Post placing a wreath at the Kimlau Gate on Memorial Day, honoring Chinatown’s war dead. The other item was a mention of a military funeral proceeding out of the Wah Fook parlor. A photo of Marines in parade dress uniforms, shouldering the flag-draped coffin of “Gary” Ying Hong Gee, on Mulberry Street. Another photo showing Gary posing proudly in uniform.
Both men were quiet for a moment as they sipped their teas.
“The story is that Gary Gee wanted to serve his country and then use the GI Bill to go to college. He wanted to study law, wanted to make a difference. He wanted to earn it on his own, not use his father’s Chinatown influence. Joining the Marines seemed like a good choice.” Jack knew what Vincent meant. Despite a few global hot spots, it had been a peacetime military, with the United States patrolling the world.
“Gary was the tangerine of his father’s eye,” Vincent added. “But almost at the end of his tour, there was a Hezbollah truck-bomb attack on a Marine barracks. You probably remember, it was in the Middle East. Twelve thousand pounds of TNT killed about two hundred Marines. Gary was one of them.”
They stared at the photo of the military funeral outside the Wah Fook.
“His father and grandfather were devastated, mourning the death of their favorite child. They had twenty-five cars in the funeral cortege. Younger brother Frank went along but didn’t hide his displeasure at being forced to go to the cemetery. He got into a fight with a photographer from one of the other dailies.” There was a small photo of Frank, a scowling juvenile face, fists clenched and cocked at the camera.
Jack imagined the casket being lowered into the ground, a soldier trumpeting taps in the background.
“The old man, Duck Hong, died a couple of months ago.” Vincent frowned. “He had a heart attack at home. Not many details, just an obituary. Apparently they handled it all in New Jersey.”
“They didn’t want to publicize a natural death?” Jack said, guessing aloud.
Vincent shrugged, didn’t have an answer.
After a run of bad press, is Bossy just trying to stay out of the limelight? Jack wondered. Just trying to run his business low key? Was there more to the story? Money-he heard Ah Por’s whisper again-evil. He swept the news items and photos into a folder and pocketed them inside his jacket.
Jack thanked Vincent, and they agreed to do dim sum sometime. He knew Vincent would appreciate an inside scoop when the case got resolved.
Taking the side streets back into Chinatown, Jack headed for Pell Street, where the Hip Ching ruled, with the vicious muscle of the Black Dragons. Looking for a prominent man from a powerful Chinatown family, and for answers to questions still floating in the frigid morning.
THE FIVE-STORY, BROWN-BRICK building at the corner of Mott and Pell was one of the few that still featured Chinese roof architecture, curved tiles that resembled lengths of green bamboo on a slanted, pagoda-style façade.
A Baskin-Robbins ice cream shop occupied the large storefront on Mott, but the building’s entrance was at 36 Pell.
The second-floor apartments had all been converted to commercial offices featuring large picture windows that overlooked the busy corner. Signs in the windows promoted a Hong Kong travel agency, an immigration lawyer, an accountant, and a real-estate broker.
Jack wondered if the Hip Chings owned the building. Many of the Chinatown tongs and family associations had a history of purchasing buildings on the same street where their clan headquarters were located. In Depression-era New York City, many white building owners desperately sought to liquidate their holdings to reduce landlord liabilities, and in turn, the Chinatown Chinese snapped up whatever properties they could.
Jack also wondered if Bossy Gee, a Hip Ching crony, owned a piece of the building.
He stepped into number 36 and scanned the office listings posted on the wall.
Bossy’s company, Golden Mountain Realty, was away from the window offices out front, but was the first room off the short flight of stairs. Gold plastic letters, GOLDEN MOUNTAIN REALTY, gleamed above the entrance.
The industrial-gray door was a neat piece of hardware-solid steel with a top half-panel of thick glass, heavy-duty locks and door handle-the kind of door you’d expect at a ghetto check-cashing place, not a Chinatown realty office.
The other doors on the landing were pushovers by comparison.
He pressed the door button and waited. He noticed the surveillance camera, high over his left shoulder in the far corner of the window wall. Covers all the businesses and residents’ comings and goings. On the other side of the glass panel was a reception area, a pretty lady behind a desk with a computer screen and phone-fax setup. She looked to be in her thirties, was probably older but still kept herself looking good. Business jacket, professional look.
She buzzed him in.
Jack badged her right away. She seemed to be alone in the office, and he wanted to put her at ease. “I need to speak with Mr. Gee,” Jack said, glancing at the open door to an empty inner office. The place had a new-car smell.
“He’s not here today,” she answered in her smiling Hong Kong Cantonese. “But I can try to call him. What is this about, ah sir?”
“Just tell him it’s a police matter.” Jack smiled politely as she gestured toward one of the quilted black leather chairs. Knockoffs from China, he thought. He sat down, scanning the office as she made the call. There were real-estate postings on the walls, photos of various buildings in Chinatown and other locations in the Tri-State area. Commercial as well as residential properties. Most of the listings centered near Chinese or Asian communities-Chinatowns, K-Towns and J-Towns, Little Saigon/Malaysia/Bombay, etc. There was a long counter on the wall behind him where the realty sections from various Chinese-language newspapers featured their own listings and properties.
One of the listings was a luxury home in Edgewater, New Jersey: 88 Edgewater Lane.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “He’s not picking up. He may be in the field.” She sounded like she’d practiced the line.
“Could you try once more?” Jack asked, nodding his thank you as she tried the call again. He wondered if she was being loyal to her boss, Bossy Gee, and was just playing him, the chaai lo. He tried to recall Singarette’s notation on the New Jersey bus map.
She let her call continue for a full minute before announcing, “He’s still not picking up. Sorry.”
“Can you try his cell phone?”
She called, but after a few seconds said, “It’s going to voice mail.”
Jack extended his NYPD detective’s card to her.
“Please have him call me,” he said.
“Ho ahh.” She smiled. “Certainly.”
She buzzed him out, and as he stepped back through the heavy door, he felt like he’d beaten lockdown at Rikers.
She was still smiling at him as he turned away from the hallway camera and walked down the stairs to Pell Street.