Vincent Chin said in bilingual-accented English, "What we're not writing is that Big Uncle had a mistress, that the killing was a Hakka drug deal that got twisted somehow. It's hearsay. We can't prove it, we can't print it."
Jack kept fishing. "Other enemies? A double cross?"
"Some people suspect the Ghosts, others say the Dragons, or the Fuk Ching. It's Chinatown fantasy as far as I'm concerned."
"What about the mistress?"
"It's gossip. Someone spotted her in a gambling house. But no one's come forward with a picture, an address, or a body."
"If you had a mistress, wouldn't you keep it hushed up?"
"Yes, but it's Chinatown. You can't shut down loose talk. That's all it is."
"How'd you hear?"
"People call up. You can't imagine the calls we got."
"That's why I'm here." Jack checked his watch, almost nine p.m. "Was it a man who called, or a woman?"
"A man," Vincent said. "Does it matter?"
"I don't know." Jack left his cop card on the typewriter. "But if there's anything else you can think of…"
"I'll call you, or Alex."
"Perfect. Thanks for your time," Jack said, and shook Chin's hand.
Outside, Jack took a deep swallow of the cool night air and trailed the backstreets of Chinatown, letting murder and motive tumble around in his head. When no answers fell out, he took a long look at the basements running down Mott Street under colored neon lights, and remembered Tat "Lucky" Louie.
He nursed two cups of coffee at the Me Lee Snack shop, eavesdropping on Hip Ching gossip: old men's chatter about a fight at a karaoke club. Hong Kong bitch was the last phrase he picked out of the thick Toishan accents.
Then he returned to Pa's apartment and ate monk's vegetarian jaai, studied the pictures of the dead man, and waited for midnight to drop.