Red Jade Read Free

celebrity.
    Toward the end of his tour in the Fifth, Jack had bumped up against his boyhood friend Tat “Lucky” Louie, who’d tried to recruit him into the ranks of dirty cops on the On Yee tong’s payroll. Lucky would have known about the Golden Galaxy, a karaoke dive that was operating on his turf. But Lucky was only being kept alive now by a respirator at Downtown CCU; he’d been caught in a gangland shoot-out between disgruntled Ghost Legion factions. The shoot-out had left seven bodies outside Chinatown OTB, and a possible shooter in flight.
    Lucky’s luck had run out.
    Then there was Alex. Alexandra Lee-Chow, Chinatown activista lawyer. Pretty and hard-nosed, but with a soft heart. She was going through a bitter yuppie divorce. And she was drifting in and out of alcoholic self-medication, just like he was.
    Since they’d known one another, Jack had steered her past a drunk and disorderly charge, and she’d helped him with his Chinatown cases. During bouts of grief and misery, they’d commiserated and become drinking buddies.
    Two budding alcoholics working their way up.
    Jack noted that he could use Alex’s connections in the Administration for Children’s Services for the newly orphaned children, as well as Victim’s Services. In addition, there was faith-based support for young victims left parentless. The man and his wife were dead, but their children had to be cared for.
    The karaoke photo of the woman reminded him vaguely of Mona. She was like a chameleon. From the little popgun she’d squeezed off firecracker shots at him as he chased her across that rooftop.
    Then she was gone. “In the wind.” He wondered how far she had flown.
    The trilling of his cell phone broke his reverie. The number on the readout was one he didn’t recognize.
    “Detective Yu?” The voice spoke Toishanese, the old Chinatown dialect.
    “Yes, who’s this?”
    “I am the father.” The words froze Jack. “Of the dead man.”
    “You were here earlier,” said Jack.
    “Yes, I found the”—a hesitation—“ Say see , the bodies …”
    “Sir, I need to speak with you,” Jack said in dialect.
    “We can meet with you. About half an hour.”
    “We?” Jack asked.
    “Myself,” the voice answered, “and the father of the dead woman.”
    Jack checked his watch. It was 6:18 AM , dark still, but dawn around the edges. He heard the sounds of Crime Scene arriving outside on the quiet street, the voice of the rookie uniformed cop.
    “Where?” Jack asked, rechecking his watch.
    He left CSU to their work and canvassed the adjacent apartments. The neighbors had heard nothing. No arguments, yelling, sounds of struggle. In the middle of the night, som gong boon yeh , they’d been dead asleep.
    An old couple in the apartment above heard a bang, but couldn’t agree whether there had been one or two. They’d thought it was the street door slamming or the noise of the overnight garbage trucks. Or maybe some lon jaai , prankster kids, blasting firecrackers.
    He left the building as dawn broke over Chinatown, made a left on Bowery, and headed north toward Canal.
    The Nom San Bok Hoy Association was located on the Bowery, north of Hester, past the block of Chinese jewelry stores and the Music Palace Chinese Theater, where the gangboy shoot-outs in the audience were becoming a bigger thrill than the Hong Kong shoot-’em-ups on the big screen.
    The Music Palace was becoming obsolete, due to a lively Chinese videotape rental market. Chinese-language entertainment in the comfort of a living room beat a musty, seedy theater hemmed in by perverts, lowlifes, and gangsters. Lucky’s Ghosts had fought with both the Dragons and the Yings over this turf.
    Why risk your life for a movie? The Nom San Bok Hoy got its name from landmarks in the villages of the clans who’d emigrated. In their province of the south of China, there were two mountains, one in the north and one in the south. Jack’s ancestors traced their lineage to the village