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.
Clarity
Jack sank into his chair in the squad room, sliding the backs of his fingers across the hard stubble of his chin while contemplating the photographs from the Thirty Minute Photo. He'd started a new file under the heading WAH YEE TAM/Uncle Four, and was attaching the pictures when the phone rang.
"Fifth Squad," he answered. "Detective Yu."
It was the Medical Examiner.
"Small caliber," the M.E. said, "probably a twenty-five. From one to two feet, we got powder marks. The slug entered left back of the head, went through bones in the cranium. There's a piece in the frontal lobe just inside the forehead. That's the one that killed him. There's another entry wound further toward the center of the head that exited the top of the skull. Shot as he was falling forward."
There was a pause before he continued.
"The killer's probably right-handed, short, and the victim was dead before he hit the ground. I call it about eleven fifty-five a.m."
Not your average hitman's caliber of choice, thought Jack. Threeeighty, nine-millimeter, he could see. The twenty-two, the twentyfive, was a lady's round, made for those little pistols that looked like cigarette lighters, the ones with plastic pearl handles, toylike, plated gold or chrome.
The M.E. hung up andJack made the entries in the file, think ing, A big shot got whacked just before noon on a working holiday, a Saturday in Chinatown. Offices in the building open but nobody heard anything. Were they just being Chinese? Or did the shooter have a silencer? Empty elevator. No witnesses.
The setup was too good, Jack decided. Someone had gotten real close, someone the victim knew.
Payback
The item appeared in the late edition of the Daily News, a two-inch column in the Metro Section, sandwiched between a photo of an auto accident and a piece on condoms in schools. The headline ran "Man Shot in Chinatown" under which it read:
A man believed to be the undersecretary of the Hip Ching Benevolent and Labor Association, a Chinatown tong, was fatally shot near his lawyer's office yesterday, police said. Wah Yee Tam, 60, was found shot in the head execution style en route to his lawyer's office at 444 Hester Street at about noon. Police have no suspects and could not comment on motive, but they voiced the fear that the shooting signals a resumption of local gang warfare. Anyone with information is urged to call (212) 334-0711. All calls will be kept confidential.