Death Money (17 page)

Everything was locked down, the alarm company on point ever since the
invasion
. The Chinese
chaai lo
cop was tripping the motion detectors, was being recorded on the surveillance setup.

He kept quiet and continued to watch from behind the curtains.

I
T DIDN’T SEEM
like anyone was home, and Jack didn’t want to set off any alarms on the property or in Bossy’s head.

Playing by the book, he backed off to what he thought was the property line and observed what he could.
A path to the lake area behind the house. No vehicles anywhere. A patio area that looks unused. Apparently no one home
.

T
HE PHONE SOUNDED
somewhere in the bedroom. He found it under one of the pillows and recognized his office number calling. He hoped the cop hadn’t heard it.

“
Maatsi?
” he asked his receptionist. “What’s the matter?”

“You had a visitor,” she answered. “A
chaai lo
.”

“Yes.” He knew.
He’s outside now
.

“He left his card, asked that you call him.”

He thought for a moment, saw the Chinese cop circling to the far side of the house. “Call him back
now
,” he instructed, “and tell him I’ll be in the office in two hours.” He had no intention of letting him into the house.

“
Ho ah
,” she acknowledged and hung up.

He rushed to Franky’s room to get a better angle. He saw the cop pull a phone from his jacket. The conversation was short, and the cop took a last look at the house before turning back toward the junker in driveway.

J
ACK GOT BACK
in the Impala, fired it up while replaying the receptionist’s words in his head. Two hours was plenty of time to get back to Bossy’s office, but he knew now there were more answers in Chinatown than in New Jersey.

He wondered about the receptionist and why Bossy’d hired a mature woman instead of some young tart eye candy, which many Chinatown offices featured. She acted like she’d worked there awhile, and Jack thought maybe she was loyal to him,
protective
.

He had time enough for a quick
som bow faahn
when he got back to Chinatown, and a few words with Billy Bow.

The car spat steam again as it crunched gravel back toward the highway.

Franky Noodles

T
HE NOISE LEVEL
in Eddie’s was amped, and they both leaned in over their
Three Precious
plates of rice,
som bow faahn
, to hear each other.

“
Francis
Gee?” Billy grinned. “Really?”

Jack nodded as he forked up a piece of soy-sauce chicken.

“Everybody in Chinatown calls him ‘Franky Noodles,’ Billy continued. “Hangs with the Black Dragons. He ain’t no fighter; he’s a rich-boy wannabe. Daddy’s got some juice.” He jabbed up a piece of
for ngaap
, roast duck.

“The Dragons still working out of that spot behind Half-Ass?” Jack asked, working a forkful of
cha siew
, roast pork, and fried egg.

“Yeah. I hate those motherfuckers as much as I hate the Ghosts, you know?”

“Yeah,” Jack agreed, knowing Billy hated the thugs and gang culture ruling Chinatown. “He got any beefs?”

“The usual shit between the Dragons and Ghosts. But he’s a player,” Billy sneered. “Drives a tricked-out red Camaro. Acts tough because he knows Daddy can bail him out.”

“Sounds like you don’t like him, man.”

“I hate them
all
.” Billy chomped a chunk of
for yook
. “Punk asses giving us hardworking Chinamen a bad name.”

“Right,” Jack agreed, thinking about Half-Ass restaurant and Franky Noodles on Hip Ching–controlled Pell Street. “You got that right.”

T
HE RECEPTIONIST AT
Golden Mountain buzzed Jack in and stalled him while she announced him over the phone intercom. The door to the inner office was open, and he saw a big desk and a pair of club chairs inside.

He took a brochure that had a smiling thumbnail shot of James Gee
saang
and a business card from the tray on her desk.

She waved him in, rising from her secretarial seat.

Once inside, Jack saw how small the office actually was. James Gee stood to one side of the carved Chinese desk. He was as tall as Jack but had a thick build, thirty pounds overweight made to look neat in the expensive gray suit. Jack suspected his shirt and shoes came with designer labels attached as well, a CEO power-meeting getup straight out of businessmen’s
GQ
.

Jack noticed how he combed his short hair straight back, old-school style, the way the Chinese barbers on Doyers Street still cut hair.

The door closed behind him as “James”
Jook Mun
spoke first. “
Chor
,” he said imperiously in smooth Cantonese, “have a seat,” motioning in the direction of the club chairs. He wore a haggard edge beneath his eyes that his smile didn’t soften.

Jack imagined the faint scent of whiskey and cigars in the air as he sat, quickly scanning the room. There was minimal decor, just a few low file cabinets lining one wall, above which were some framed photos of James with
other Chinese men posing with Fraternal Order of Police organizations.

The wall behind the desk featured awards and photos of Chinatown civic groups, a plaque from the Senior Citizens’ Free Breakfast Program, a miniature American flag. He didn’t see any family photos at all.

“Mr. Gee,” Jack began, wanting to start off respectfully before he got to the hard questions.

“Before we begin, Detective,” James interrupted, “there’s something I’m curious about, that I’d like to ask you first.”

“Sure,” Jack said agreeably. “Go ahead.”

“My police friends are much older than you,” James began, “closer to retiring. A few of them have inquired about security positions in our commercial buildings.”

Jack nodded politely, let him continue.

“The problem is, most of the businesses are Chinese, and these policemen are
not
. Nor do they speak Chinese. I don’t think the tenants can be happy with that.” He paused, sized Jack up with a curious look.

“You said you had a question,” Jack said.

“I was wondering if someone like yourself might consider a security manager position? There aren’t many Chinese policemen, and we both know the pay could be better.”

“I’m happy where I’m at right now,” answered Jack with a small smile. “Someday, maybe, but thanks for the consideration.”
Friendly enough so far
, he thought.

James held his smile, but something calculating flashed in his eyes.

Jack sensed that they were like two boxers—martial artists—feeling each other out, circling and measuring before throwing punches. He reached into his jacket and took out
the snapshot of Singarette, dead in the river. He slid it across the desk and watched it nail James’s attention.

James stared at it a moment before picking it up.

“I’m investigating the death of Jun Wah Zhang,” Jack said.

James said nothing, waiting for the rest of it, with the frozen smile on his face.

“Know him?” Jack asked.

“No.” James frowned.

“Never seen him?” pressed Jack.

“Never.” He slid the snapshot back to Jack, shook his head. “It’s sad when people die.”

Jack nodded his agreement, adding, “He worked at one of your restaurants.”

“That may be,” James acknowledged. “But I don’t know
all
the workers in
all
my businesses. There must be hundreds.”

“He may have had problems in your restaurants,” Jack added.

“I have no idea about that,” James said coolly. “I leave that to the managers.” He flashed his Cheshire Cat grin again.
Like he knew it’d come to nothing
, thought Jack.
If anything, he’d throw one of the managers under the bus
.

“So you have no idea what might have led to his death, Gee
saang?
”

“Absolutely no idea.”

Both men took a breath at the pause.

“Where were you four nights ago, Gee
saang?
” Jack asked abruptly, “between eight and ten
P.M.?”

An incredulous look froze James’s face. “You actually think I killed someone, Detective?”

“It’s just to eliminate you as a suspect,” Jack answered deftly with copspeak. “Just a formality.”

“A formality, sure,” with a snicker, humoring the
jook-sing
cop now. He casually checked the calendar blotter on his desk. It didn’t take a minute.

“I was at a Chinatown fund-raiser. At On Luck restaurant.” He said it confidently, like he knew it would be verified. An airtight alibi. “Ask any of the managers.”

“What if I tell you”—Jack leaned forward—“that Jun’s death leads back to your house?” He watched as smooth James Gee
saang
slowly became Bossy Gee.

“
My
house?” Bossy looked puzzled. “Get to the point, Detective. What are you implying?”

“It may have to do with the home invasion you suffered recently.”

Bossy leaned back, frowned toward the file cabinets. “I don’t see any connection to that. And I don’t like to talk about it. My family is still in mourning. And I explained everything to the New Jersey police already.”

“I understand your grief,” Jack said.

“I don’t think you do,” Bossy said. “My father died a horrible death, suffocating, and a heart attack.”

“It’s possible Jun gave your address to the home invaders,” Jack continued.

Bossy shook his head, annoyed now, the
chaai lo
trying his patience.
Not so friendly anymore
, thought Jack.

“Where are you getting all this?” Bossy asked skeptically. “My family doesn’t need any more bad news.”

“It may have to do with a gambling debt,” suggested Jack. Bossy took a breath, sighed. “Troubled employee, gambling debt, home invasion,” he said dismissively. “Aren’t you taking this a bit far,
Yu?
”

“Only as far as I need to,
sir
,” Jack countered.

Bossy paused, his annoyance quickly switching to resignation. “What does your father do?” he finally asked.

“
Keuih jouh yee gwoon
,” Jack answered. “He was a laundryman.”

Bossy cracked a smile that was almost a sneer, trying hard to mask his disdain for the American-born
son of a laundryman
. Jack didn’t miss the contempt in his eyes.

“
My
father,” Bossy said, glowing with arrogant pride, “was a hero in Chinatown. Ask
anyone
. A
great
man.”

A great man
, thought Jack sardonically,
who made dirty money off the vices that tugged at the souls of the lonely, isolated bachelors of Pa’s generation. A “great” man, who was a
tong
member and Triad leader who trafficked in paper sons and concubine wives, and alcohol and opium
. Jack bit his tongue to keep the words from coming out.

“Isn’t that even more reason to bring to justice those who cost him his life?” he asked instead.

“Look, suppose what you say is true,” Bossy said. “Who do
you
think did it?”

“That’s what I want to ask
you
. And I can’t comment on an open investigation,” Jack responded with more copspeak.

“Of course not.” Bossy smirked. “How convenient.”

“How’s that?” Jack narrowed his eyes.

“That you can make these
allegations
, without substantiating what your sources are.”

“C’mon,” Jack jabbed. “Who did it, Gee
saang?
Who do you think the perpetrators are?”

Bossy took a shallow breath through his nose. “I have
no
idea. That’s what I told the New Jersey police.”

“White, black, Asian?” Jack pressed.

“They wore ski masks and gloves. And it happened so fast I never got a good look. They all wore black sneakers or work boots. One of them had a shotgun.”

“Your gut feeling?”

Bossy shrugged. “The Jersey police seemed like they thought it was a ‘Chinese thing.’ But they could be
gwai lo
devils for all I know. Maybe people who worked on the house. Deliverymen. It could be anyone.”

“Why’s that?”

“Someone said ‘no fears’ when they were beating me.”

“‘No fears’?”

“Right. In
English
.”

“But why
your
house?”

“Who knows? There are people in this neighborhood who objected to me building this house. There are people who resent us for being successful.”

“You mentioned that to the police?”

“They didn’t want to hear it. I guess a ‘Chinese thing’ is more convenient.”

“They just blurted out ‘no fears’?”

“No. When they were pushing us around, I told them they were making a big mistake. They were binding my father at the other end of the living room.”

“‘A big mistake’?”
Arrogance even in the clutch of armed thugs?

“I said it in English first. When I didn’t get an answer, I repeated it in Chinese. Then one of them belted me a couple of times with his gun. That’s when someone punched me and said, ‘No fears.’ I was down and bound before I knew it.” He took another breath before continuing. “Since then, I’ve discovered there have been a number of home invasions in
this county. Some of the victims were Asian. The only ones arrested were
gwai lo
whites—I guess they resented
tong yen
for having money.” He checked his watch, a shiny gold Rolex, showing his impatience now.

“I have a meeting to get to, Detective,” he said.

“If you know who did this, and you want to keep the police out of it so you can resolve matters yourself, it’s a bad idea.”

A sneer muscled onto Bossy’s lips again. “I’ve cooperated fully with the police. I hope they do their job.”

“And if Jun did get killed because he gave up your address,” Jack continued, “and you
know
something about it and keep it from us, that could incriminate you as well.”