Jack had dinner alone, a plate of onion-smothered grilled steak at the back table of the Golden Star. Chased it with a beer, waited while surfing TV news channels. President Clinton setting Upjapan for the biggest bash of all. North Korea, nuclear rogue of Asia. China, remember Tiananmen Square, the Most Favored Nation.
When Alexandra arrived they took a back booth and sat opposite each other in the shadowy blue light. He ordered another beer and she started with a Kamikaze.
"Thanks for coming," he said.
The mood was conciliatory. Jack lit both their cigarettes as she said, "You did me a favor. I owe you."
"You don't owe me anything," he replied. "I know you're trying to do something positive, trying to make a difference. I didn't want to see that going down the drain."
Alexandra blew smoke sideways, assessed him with her eyes. "Well," she began, "you'll be happy to know, Immigration's got them."
"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.