version.”
“There was a smuggled girl we put up in the shelter. In the last few days, Doris has been getting nasty threatening calls at the reception desk.”
“What kind of threats?”
“‘Stay away from our women.’ ‘Your office may catch fire.’ Crap like that.”
“No shit. In Chinese?”
“Mandarin, sort of.”
“Sort of?”
“Doris said, with a sort of accent, like Fukienese, maybe. Two nights ago, when we closed, two guys were peering in through the blinds. After that, I felt like someone was following me, like from a distance.”
He pulled his black North Face jacket from the little closet.
“Fukienese?” he asked.
“Chinese, for sure. Last night I thought I saw one of them outside Confucius.”
“Go to the precinct and file a Form Sixty-One report so it’ll be on record. And it could support your pistol application.” He paused, checking for his keys. “You still have that friend in the DA’s office? ”
“Yes,” she said.
“Well, you’re a lawyer yourself. That will help. But the DA’s office could call the Licensing Division. Know what I’m saying?”
“Right.”
“After you get the paperwork in, I’ll set you up at a pistol range. Learn how to shoot the right way. I know a guy on the West Side. Nice guy, Chinese, too.”
“Yeah, sure.” He heard her chuckle. “Thanks a lot.” It sounded like she took another sip, before saying, “There’s some other stuff . . .”
He checked his watch again.
“Tell you what,” he said. “ Why don’t you drop by Grampa’s later?”
He thought he heard “You bet” before she hung up.
Golden Star
The Golden Star Bar and Grill on East Broadway was known to the locals as Grampa’s, a revered Chinatown jukebox joint frequented by a Lower East Side clientele of Chinese, Puerto Ricans, blacks, and whites. It was three steps down to a big room with an oval-shaped bar, and even in the dim blue neon light, Jack could make out Billy seated at the end of the long glossy counter. He was watching two Latinas shooting a rack on the pool table in the back.
Jack took a barstool next to him.
“Hey hey,” greeted Billy. “Wassup?”
“You tell me,” answered Jack. “What’s the buzz?”
“Just a coupla the Fuk slop boys talking,” Billy said, signaling the bartender for a beer for Jack. As he waited, Jack remembered Vincent Chin, editor of the Chinese language newspaper, the United National. He had assisted Jack in the past. Jack knew Billy’s words would be neighborhood lowdown , in contrast to Vincent’s professional view.
They tapped beer bottles and Billy swiveled on the barstool, put his back to the two ladies at the pool table and leaned toward Jack. “In the slop room,” he said quietly, “I overheard the Fuk boys talking about the big shootout under the bridge. The crap didn’t start there, and probably won’t be the end of it. A coupla weeks ago, some Fuk Ching gangbangers threw a beat down on a few casino bus drivers who weren’t knuckling under. What happened the other night, the young guns chased a Fuk Chow crew chief down Henry, through the backstreets near the bridge. They shot him as he ran. Six times, both legs and arms.”
“They let him live,” Jack said, knowing now why the shooting never made the blotter as a homicide.
“It was a warning.” Billy continued, “The young Chings felt they were being squeezed out of the tour-bus game, like a new deal was coming down. The older Fuk Chow guys didn’t like the attention the young guns were attracting.”
“Well, too late now.” Jack smirked. “The shit’s hit the fan. Whatever the shady bus deal was, there’s a spotlight on it now, and they can’t be happy about that.”
“That’s a bet,” said Billy. “And about Jeff’s office getting robbed out there? The slop boyz claim that the Ching crews ain’t into burglaries. They don’t want stuff they gotta resell. They only want cash money, gold and silver. Easy money, jacking home
“There was a smuggled girl we put up in the shelter. In the last few days, Doris has been getting nasty threatening calls at the reception desk.”
“What kind of threats?”
“‘Stay away from our women.’ ‘Your office may catch fire.’ Crap like that.”
“No shit. In Chinese?”
“Mandarin, sort of.”
“Sort of?”
“Doris said, with a sort of accent, like Fukienese, maybe. Two nights ago, when we closed, two guys were peering in through the blinds. After that, I felt like someone was following me, like from a distance.”
He pulled his black North Face jacket from the little closet.
“Fukienese?” he asked.
“Chinese, for sure. Last night I thought I saw one of them outside Confucius.”
“Go to the precinct and file a Form Sixty-One report so it’ll be on record. And it could support your pistol application.” He paused, checking for his keys. “You still have that friend in the DA’s office? ”
“Yes,” she said.
“Well, you’re a lawyer yourself. That will help. But the DA’s office could call the Licensing Division. Know what I’m saying?”
“Right.”
“After you get the paperwork in, I’ll set you up at a pistol range. Learn how to shoot the right way. I know a guy on the West Side. Nice guy, Chinese, too.”
“Yeah, sure.” He heard her chuckle. “Thanks a lot.” It sounded like she took another sip, before saying, “There’s some other stuff . . .”
He checked his watch again.
“Tell you what,” he said. “ Why don’t you drop by Grampa’s later?”
He thought he heard “You bet” before she hung up.
Golden Star
The Golden Star Bar and Grill on East Broadway was known to the locals as Grampa’s, a revered Chinatown jukebox joint frequented by a Lower East Side clientele of Chinese, Puerto Ricans, blacks, and whites. It was three steps down to a big room with an oval-shaped bar, and even in the dim blue neon light, Jack could make out Billy seated at the end of the long glossy counter. He was watching two Latinas shooting a rack on the pool table in the back.
Jack took a barstool next to him.
“Hey hey,” greeted Billy. “Wassup?”
“You tell me,” answered Jack. “What’s the buzz?”
“Just a coupla the Fuk slop boys talking,” Billy said, signaling the bartender for a beer for Jack. As he waited, Jack remembered Vincent Chin, editor of the Chinese language newspaper, the United National. He had assisted Jack in the past. Jack knew Billy’s words would be neighborhood lowdown , in contrast to Vincent’s professional view.
They tapped beer bottles and Billy swiveled on the barstool, put his back to the two ladies at the pool table and leaned toward Jack. “In the slop room,” he said quietly, “I overheard the Fuk boys talking about the big shootout under the bridge. The crap didn’t start there, and probably won’t be the end of it. A coupla weeks ago, some Fuk Ching gangbangers threw a beat down on a few casino bus drivers who weren’t knuckling under. What happened the other night, the young guns chased a Fuk Chow crew chief down Henry, through the backstreets near the bridge. They shot him as he ran. Six times, both legs and arms.”
“They let him live,” Jack said, knowing now why the shooting never made the blotter as a homicide.
“It was a warning.” Billy continued, “The young Chings felt they were being squeezed out of the tour-bus game, like a new deal was coming down. The older Fuk Chow guys didn’t like the attention the young guns were attracting.”
“Well, too late now.” Jack smirked. “The shit’s hit the fan. Whatever the shady bus deal was, there’s a spotlight on it now, and they can’t be happy about that.”
“That’s a bet,” said Billy. “And about Jeff’s office getting robbed out there? The slop boyz claim that the Ching crews ain’t into burglaries. They don’t want stuff they gotta resell. They only want cash money, gold and silver. Easy money, jacking home
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