Year of the Dog (22 page)
Authors: Henry Chang
Tags: #Fiction, #Mystery & Detective, #Hard-Boiled, #Mystery, #Crime
Back at the 0-Five, Jack reviewed the Gang Intel files, and put Eddie’s photo, tattoos, and name on a wanted bulletin that would reach out electronically to a million eyes, searching into the wind after a clever monkey.
Bo waited on Mott Street until the Temple of Buddha opened its doors. Inside, a recorded chant came from behind the large wooden carving of the Goddess of Mercy. Bo burned some incense, kneeled before the goddess, and recited the prayers for Sai Go that she’d offered during the night.
On the way out she bowed to the statue of Kwan Kung, God of War, and went down Mott Street holding back her tears.
Jack watched as the men in blue windbreakers shuttered every known gambling establishment on Mott, Bayard, and Pell Streets, including the mahjong rooms, massage parlors, and karaoke clubs.
The OCCB, Organized Crime Control Bureau, supported by state troopers, ATF agents, and U.S. Customs and Immigration officers, raided the Association headquarters of the On Yee, the Hip Ching, and the Fuk Chow.
While prominent white lawyers protested on the Associations’ behalf, the cops arrested every known Ghost on sight, and also hauled in the Dragons and Fuk Chings for good measure. The brazen gangboys were made to take the perp walk for the news reporters, ducking their heads to hide from the cameras, trying to avoid the humiliation of extreme loss of face
.
The blue task force raided Chinatown apartments, basements, and warehouses for contraband goods: counterfeit designer handbags and computer software, watches, cassettes, and bootleg cigarettes. Department of Transportation marshals followed them and towed away all the gangsters’ muscle cars.
The 0-Five, backed by the outside layers of law enforcement, was sending a signal to all the tongs and gangbangers on Fifth Precinct turf
,
a hard-fisted notice that the NYPD blue gang was not going to tolerate the wanton violence that had brought embarrassment and critical scrutiny to their stationhouse.
The cops didn’t really give a shit if the gangsters killed each other,
Jack knew,
it was only politics. When the wind died down, the stench
would return.
The pictures of seized contraband and the perp walks were published in the daily papers to show that the police had flexed their muscles, and were firmly in control of Chinatown.
One Police Plaza measured its comments, still wary of the fickle media.
Captain Marino called Jack and thanked him personally for his assistance, wishing him well on his return to the 0-Nine.
* * *
The
United National,
Chinatown’s oldest newspaper, ap-plauded the many Associations for their cooperation with law enforcement, for contributing to a safer neighborhood. Vincent Chin’s editorial pointed out the need for Chinese community-liaison officers, and more bilingual civilian employees in the local precincts.
The headlines in the
New York Post
announced NYPD MOVES TO END GANG VIOLENCE, CRACKS DOWN ON CHINATOWN TONGS.
The
Daily News
printed photos of the dead gangsters, labeling them “modern-day hatchetmen of the new tong wars.”
The Metro section of
The Times
printed a picture of Keung “Eddie” Ng, wanted as a person of interest by detectives of the Fifth Precinct.
Jack knew they meant Detectives Hernandez and Donelly.
January eighteenth was Pa’s birthday. Jack went to the cemetery alone, bringing the pair of potted hothouse Dusty Millers he’d bought at Fa Fa Florist. The cemetery grounds lay beneath a blanket of white, hard drifts that had piled up against the sides of the old mausoleums. The headstones were covered by white caps already melting in the morning sun, trickles of water running down toward the frozen earth.
From Pa’s gray headstone, Jack scanned the hushed ghostly scene. At the other side of the cemetery, on a hilly knoll that was part of the new Chinese section, he noticed a woman pulling items out of large shopping bags. She was a solitary figure in front of a new brown-colored headstone, setting down bright red pots of poinsettias, the only movement in the silent rolling expanse of white snow and evergreens.
Flames danced out of a big tin bucket as she fed the fire handfuls of gold- and silver-colored-paper taels, fake ancient Chinese money. A red cardboard car disappeared into the smoke, following the million-dollar packets of death money. Paper talismans of numerous Chinese gods were sacrificed,
bot
gwas
in different colors and shapes.
Even in the distance, under the slanting sunlight, Jack could see she was crying as she spoke her prayers.
The sight made him feel even sadder.
He turned back to Pa’s patch of ground, placing his potted bushes gently into the snow on either side of Pa’s headstone. The dusty gray leaves with tiny white flowers accented the stone nicely. Touching his fingers to the Chinese words carved into the face of the stone, he searched his mind for good memories but could only recall that Pa had been a hardworking man, loyal to his friends.
He torched the incense and planted the thin sticks.
He bowed three times.
Wordlessly, he pulled the flask from his jacket and uncapped it. He poured out a thin stream of
mao tai
liquor that melted a line in the snow. Then he took a swig himself before resuming the final good-bye he hadn’t had the chance to say in life.
“Sorry, Dad,” he said quietly. “Hope you find some happiness up there.”
He emptied the flask and backed away from the headstone. Bowing again, he took a pack of firecrackers from his pocket, holding it while the sadness in his heart brought the tears to his eyes. He fired up his lighter, and slowly brought the flame to the skinny silver fuse.
The staccato bursts of the firecrackers were hammered by the boom of cherry bombs and the clanging of ash-can charges as the New Year’s crowds flooded into Chinatown.
The Year of the Pig had swept in on the icy wings of the hawk, and settled onto a left-over foot of snow and slush. Clouds of gray-blue smoke floated up from the fireworks as the masses tamped down the littered carpet of red particles that covered the winding snowy streets.
Jack smelled the stinging bite of sulfur and ash, tasted the gun powder in the cold air as lion dancers in colorful costumes leaped at the blazing explosions. They were inspired by the clash of gongs and cymbals, teasing the thundering war beat out of the big wooden drums, driving out the evil spirits that plagued Chinatowns everywhere.
The explosions blasted through the smoky air, spurring on the energetic lion dancers who were stomping through the snow to the pounding rhythm of the large drums. The plaintive gongs and raucous cymbals urged the crowds on, provoking another rain of fireworks.
The lion heads appeared to be breathing fire, bright white flashes of light beneath the brilliant gold, green, and red decorations that brightened the neighborhood. He saw images of golden pigs in all the shop windows.
Outside the Tofu King, Alexandra, wearing a quilted red
meen nop
jacket, stood beside Jack, soaking in the joyous outpouring as Mott Street filled with people and became impassable.
The kung-fu clubs performed all around them, twisting and thrusting the multicolored lion heads at the red envelopes offered by the shop owners.
Billy Bow, using a fat cigar for ignition, launched a mat of firecrackers into the street.
A long golden dragon, held high on poles, wound its serpentine way past them, followed by a pair of lunging silver unicorns.
Everywhere, a sea of bright red.
Twenty-foot strands of firecrackers, strung from fire escapes above, blazed to a thunderous end, inciting the crowds below to cheers and applause.
The New Year was a celebration of family bonds and a chance to embrace new beginnings.
Wrap up loose ends, settle debts, clean
the house, sweep out the dust, buy some new clothes.
The Pig was the twelfth sign, the last sign in the lunar cycle, the purest in heart and most generous of the animals. The Pig was loyal, chivalrous, and believed in miracles. The year was characterized by honesty, fortitude, and courage.
In Columbus Park, volunteers had shoveled back the snow, and the flower vendors pitched their colorful bouquets under the huge tent of the Lunar New Year flowers market.
The benevolent associations sponsored Chinese acrobats, and produced martial-arts demonstrations in their assembly halls. Because of the snow, there would be a shortened Lantern Parade accompanied by the Chinese School Marching Band.
The On Yee Association bankrolled a Cantonese Opera troupe’s performance at the Sun Sang theater, trumpeting a community alive with celebrations of tradition, culture, and family.
The NYPD had fenced off the main streets with metal barriers, and blocked out strategic areas for police vehicles. Crowd-control duties provided overtime cash for the uniforms, most of whom stuffed cotton wads into their ears, crinkled their noses, and held their breaths in the acrid smoke.
This celebration, this new Pig Year was foreign to them.
Jack spotted Jeff Lee in a crowd across the way on Pell, tossing firecrackers at a pair of bowing lion heads. Knowing that it was the monkey, Eddie Ng
¸
who’d ripped off Jeff’s office on Pike, weighed on Jack’s mind.
Seeing Jeff reminded Jack that slick short Eddie was still at large. Jack had sent out bulletins to the various law enforcement agencies and was hopeful the
ma lo
hadn’t fled the country yet.
Jack tilted his face up to the blue sky and felt the warmth of the winter sun. Around him, the crowd roared again as more fireworks exploded, and Alexandra clutched his arm tightly against her body.
Sooner or later,
he knew, Little Eddie’s trail would turn up.
Until then, the January sun felt good, and Alex was a comfort to him, making the possibilities of the new year seem open to fortitude, courage, and good fortune. . . .
