The room was a hazy brightly lit basement, thick with the smell of whiskey, coffee, and cigarettes. They were two-fifty, say three hundred people crammed together, Chinese men shoulder-toshoulder, three deep at the gaming tables. Dragon Ladies serving XO and coffee to the high rollers.
Jack stepped into this eclectic mix of waiters, businessmen, hoodlums, cowboys, and street-gang kids. He saw how the younger men seemed to group together, how the Ghostboys had a certain swagger here, the throng parting for their every move from table to table. No doubt who this place answered to. The anxious crowd played mahjong, fan tan, paigozu, thirteen-card poker, betting on fighting fish every half hour. Eight tables were working hard, especially at consuming the whiskey they were spreading around. Jack played the tables along the fringe, leading to the far back of the long room. There was a door there. The little white fan-tan buttons weren't turning up right; it cost Jack a tenspot to watch that door. They all shifted, now betting at the thirteen-card table, almost at the far end. Another ten-spot rode his hand against the House. He saw some of the young guns exit through the doorway which led to a back room and a connecting courtyard. Jack's cards won heads and tails, suddenly upping him twenty bucks. He picked up his money and moved smoothly toward the doorway.
A procession of street kids cut him off. He was letting them drift by when he felt the bump, the heft, of gun-barrel metal jammed into his side, just below the ribs. "Move," the voice said. Before he could turn he was swept up by a crew of Ghost Legion darkshirts, pushed into the back room, where another gun pressed into his temple. He was turned around, slowly, arms stretched sidewise. He felt hands yank the Colt Special from his waist, brought his eyes to bear on a familiar face, fuller now and jowly, with a thickset body, leaning to one side. Around him hate was beaming from Ghost faces, just itching for trouble.
Jack felt the heavy metal slide away from his temple, saw the man step back, a disgusted look on his face. The man reached across Jack's neck and lifted the chain with the detective's badge dangling from it.
"Tat Louie," Jack said.
Lucky let the chain run across his fingers before he balled up his fist and yanked the badge from Jack's neck.
"You gotta lotta balls coming to squeeze me," he said. "That badge ain't shit down here."
"If I wanted to squeeze you I wouldn't have come alone."
"Hey, I'm pissing, I'm so scared," Lucky hissed. "What the fuck you want coming down here?"
"I need help, Tat."
"You need help, call nine-one-one," he cracked. The Ghosts howled.
"That's funny, Tat. Just like it's funny how somebody whacked Uncle Four and nobody knows nothing."
Lucky almost smiled. "Don't worry about it, Jacky boy; you know, it's Chinatown."
Jack straightened. "I know eight months ago you made peace with the Black Dragons. Uncle Four set it up and put his name on it."
The Ghosts spread back, giving them some room.
"Yeah, so you know it wasn't us," Lucky said, holstering the heavy Python revolver.
"Maybe there was a double cross." Jack grinned.
"Maybe you should go fuck yourself," Lucky said, lighting up a cigarette. He blew smoke into Jack's face.
"It wasn't random, wasn't a robbery. More like a pro j ob,"Jack said through the haze. "Was it the White Tigers? Born to Kill, the Fuk Ching?" Jack hesitated.
"Yeah, it was alla them, especially them little Fuk Chow pricks."
"Come on, Tat, let's deal. I know you got problems."
"Do I look worried?" He blew more smoke at Jack.
"You should be. The Fuks and the Namese boys been chopping you up."
Lucky chortled, took a drag on the cigarette. "You crack me tip," he said, the others sneering behind him.
"You gave up Market Street," Jack pressed.
"What the fuck you smoking, man?"
"Come on, Tat, let's deal."
"Deal? You got nothing I want."
"They say he had a girlfriend, brought her gambling."
"You're wasting my time, Jacky boy."
"Now she's disappeared too."
"Don't know nothing about it."
"Hong Kong type. A karaoke singer?"
"Can't help you, man."
Jack took a breath, hadn't expected to last this long and knew he was on a roll.
"Yeah," he said, "but I can help you. I can make it tough for the Fuk Ching. I can have their cars towed."
Lucky wasn't impressed, blew smoke from his nose.
"I can put heat on their gambling joints," Jack pushed on. "I can roust the Namese boys, shake them up a little."
Lucky seemed vaguely interested now. "Keep talking," he said.
"I need a face, a name." Jack was fishing deeper water now. "I can access the department's computers, find out where all your enemies are."
"And you don't care one bit if we whack them all," Lucky spit out contemptuously.
"I do not give a fuck," Jack said. "I wish you all would whack each other out the same day. Make my job a lot easier."
"Bring me some information," Lucky said, snuffing the cigarette.
"I need a face, a name."
"You're chasing shadows, man. It's smoke."
"So we dealing or what?"
Lucky was intrigued now, though he couldn't show it in front of the Ghosts. He said, "Give me a sign, Jacky. I'll be listening."
The darkshirts whisked Jack through the courtyard, through a hallway leading to a side street. Lucky held up Jack's chain, let the badge dangle before he tucked it into Jack's pocket.
"You got some fuckin' balls coming down here, boy," he said, suddenly snapping an uppercut into Jack's gut, a sucker punch driving Jack to his knees. As the Ghosts moved off laughing, Jack gasped for air and heard Lucky grinning words through his teeth.
"That's for old times," he snapped.