Death Money (6 page)

After marching several blocks, he came to an intersection where a blue-and-white patrol car had stopped for a light. Jack caught the shotgun-seat sergeant’s eye and badged him. The passenger window was powered down.

“Hey, Sarge,” Jack said like they were friends. “I’m working a John Doe. How about a lift to University Avenue?”

The white sergeant, with a salt-and-pepper crew cut, took a full ten seconds to digest Jack’s presence—the first
Oriental
cop he’d ever encountered—quietly stunned by Jack’s perfect New
Yawk
accent.

“Get in,” the sarge growled.

Jack slid into the backseat, caught his breath as the uniformed driver gunned the Ford toward University.

“What precinct
you
?” the sarge asked, craning his neck back to get an eye-corner glimpse of Jack.

Jack heard it
Yu
, like they really knew each other.
Brothers. Blood brothers. NYPD-blue blood brothers
.

“Down in the Ninth,” Jack answered.

“Where’d you find the stiff?” asked the sarge.

“He was a floater,” Jack said as pockets of gentrified streets flashed by.

“No shit. Was that the Harlem River thing this morning?”

“You got it.”

“I heard it over the radio,” the sarge continued. “And they brought you up from the Lower East Side?”

Jack nodded
yeah
at the crew cut, studying him now in the rearview mirror.
You got it
. A patrol squawk over the radio broke the long silence as they approached University.

“Why you?” the sarge finally asked. Jack paused before answering, tempted to say,
Because I’m Chinese?

“Maybe all the dicks are busy with the club fire?” Jack answered instead.

“Probably that.” The sarge grunted in agreement as Jack hopped out on University.

“Thanks for the ride, Sarge.” Jack pumped a thumbs-up.

The sarge returned Jack a
whatever
salute as the blue-and-white sped off toward the Washington Bridge. Jack took a breath and turned back down the South Bronx streets, looking for any sign of a Golden City.

A
CCORDING TO THE
map, Golden City was closer to the Harlem River and the creeping pockets of gentrification, so the restaurant’s owners could expect a lucrative takeout and delivery business. But closer to the river also meant closer to the Morris Houses, the notorious projects
known for breeding stone-cold teenagers looking to get rich quick or die trying.

Jack knew that gangster turf wars and drug dealing in the projects accounted for a big chunk of the Forty-Fourth Precinct’s crime stats. As he walked into the river wind, he looked for delivery bikes on the street but saw none.
Rolling on deliveries
, he figured.

He got to the restaurant address quickly, the location bearing such little signage that he almost walked past it. Golden City reminded him of a Chinatown restaurant, with five red booths in a line against a long wall and three small tables opposite them. There were a couple of gold fan wall decorations, and
GUM GWOK LOY
(Gold City Come) was written in big, gold Chinese characters

The place was half full. He saw that the kitchen was in the back, the kind you could
hear
more than see, with the clatter and salty talk from the chefs and the
da jops
, kitchen help, the noise carrying through to the other side of the pass-through, where the waiters hung out for the pickup bell.

There was a cashier station beside the front entrance, with a register behind a plastic divider displaying a Bronx tour map and a Yankees calendar. There were photographs of local sports teams covering the area where the cashier, a Chinese girl who looked like she was in high school, was taking receipts and making change with a smile.

“
Ging lay
,” Jack requested. “I need the manager.”

She tapped a
ding
out of the takeout bell, and a man in black near the kitchen looked up as she waved him over.

Jack met him halfway and badged him into one of the empty booths.

“Know him?” Jack asked, laying the photo on the table.

The manager took a long look at the snapshot before replying “
Jun Wah
“ in Hong Kong Cantonese.

“He worked here?”

The man nodded
yes
, pushing the photo back.

“Last name?”

“Chang, or Zhang.
Jun Wah Zhang
. What happened to him?”

“We think he drowned.”

“He worked here for about a month,” the man continued. “Then he quit.”

“What was his job?” Jack pressed.

“Deliveries, mostly.”

“What about when it’s slow?”

The question seemed to surprise the manager. “General cleaning. Helping in the kitchen, sometimes washing dishes.” It sounded to Jack like they got every minute’s worth of muscle, wrung every ounce of sweat, out of the dead man. Chang.
Jun Wah
.

The manager was glib, using quick-talking Hong Kong slang, coolly moving the conversation along like he was dancing around the dead body, not wanting to dirty his shoes.

Jack asked, “Got an address for him?”

“M’jidou
.” He shook his head. “No idea.”

“Why did he quit?” Jack continued.
Because you were working him to death?

“He wasn’t happy with the money.” The manager’s tone implied
ingrate
.

“When did he quit?”

“It was November sometime, around Thanksgiving.”

“Did he seem depressed?” Jack held up the photo again. “He mention any problems?”

“
M’jidou
.” The man shrugged. “No idea. He kept to himself. Did his job, took his tips, and left.”

No human resources needed
, thought Jack.

A group of postal workers entered the restaurant and was greeted by the cashier. Jack eyed the three other restaurant workers. Two waiters and a kitchen helper in a soiled white apron.

“He wanted more money,” the manager offered as he shifted his attention between Jack and the new customers. “What can you do?” He caught Jack’s interest in the workers: “They’re just part-timers. And they’re new. They just started a month ago. Fresh off the boat.” That smooth Hong Kong–nese again.
So they wouldn’t have known him
.

Jack accepted the personnel turnover angle, especially up here in the Bronx, and he knew that bosses liked part-timers who could work off the books, who didn’t require insurance, and from whom they could extract a portion of their tips. The
da jop
looked like he was working his way through a five-year indentured servitude, and the cashier was probably one of the boss’s schoolgirl nieces.

Ding!

“Sorry.” The manager rose from the booth. “It’s
chaan kay
, the lunch rush.” He went to greet and seat the postal workers in his most obsequious manner as one of the waiters readied a pot of tea.

Savory steam leaked out near the swinging kitchen door as Jack slipped out of the booth. He felt he’d gotten enough for the meantime and knew he could always come back if necessary.

Turning up his collar, he went back out into the street, wondering what else he’d find when he got to the China Village.

I
T WAS ANOTHER
five-block march toward the river, and along the way Jack noticed condominium developments alongside rehabilitated prewar buildings. He half expected to see a deliveryman ride past and jiggled Chang’s bike key in his pocket.

The sign above a big picture-window front read
CHINA VILLAGE
in an Oriental font, braced on both sides by stencils of bamboo plants. Jack looked inside through the picture window, saw two big, empty round tables in the middle of the dining floor. Track lighting gave the setting a soft touch, like a theater set. Farther back, the booths and the small tables were all occupied, diners watching the big-screen TV on the back wall. A Knicks recap. The menu in the window offered bottled beer and charged an uncorking fee if you brought your own wine. Yankees and Giants posters hung just inside the entrance, giving the place a New York sports vibe.

China Village probably didn’t get a lot of
turistas
in the South Bronx, Jack knew, but the park waterfront and Yankee Stadium still attracted people to the general area. Maybe the restaurant attracted sports fans who wanted a quick, tasty meal on the cheap and a beer or two before the big game or match.

Jack’s focus came back to the front. Again, the Yankees championship team photo and the Knicks calendar at a cashier’s station by the wall near the main door. He imagined the dinner rush was probably better than the lunch crowd
and wondered if people here wagered on sports events. And
who
might be handling the action.

Inside were two waiters and a cashier lady. He spotted a manager type who looked strangely similar to the one at Golden City.
Maybe it was the all-black outfits?

Jack backed away from the window, drew a long cold
shaolin
breath, and closed his eyes. Trying to pull together the clues, the missing pieces.

When he opened his eyes, he saw what he’d been looking for—a Chinese deliveryman on a bike, pedaling quickly and empty-handed toward the China Village.
Looks like a student
, Jack thought, before badging the bike man over. The guy was probably in his twenties but looked younger, wearing a suspicious, wary look on his face.

“
Dailo ah
,” Jack addressed him in street Cantonese, giving the man
face
and putting him at ease. “You could be a big help, brother.”

“
Mot’si ah sir?
” the deliveryman answered respectfully in slang Cantonese. “What’s the problem?”

“Seen this man?” Jack asked as he held up the snapshot of Chang. Recognition and shock crossed the man’s face.

“
Wah
!” he said. “
Gowsing gum yeung ah?
”

Wow
, was what Jack heard,
he’s come to this?

“He worked here?” Jack followed. “What’s his name?”

“Singarette,” the man said softly, catching his breath. He smiled sadly and shook his head.

“Singarette?” Jack pressed.

“His name is Sing, but we called him Singarette.” He looked away from the photo. “What happened to him?”

“He was in the river,” Jack answered, holding up the photo again. “Why Singarette?”

“He was generous with cigarettes. Always offering during the smoke breaks. The men would say, ‘Here comes Singarette!’ And he’d light you up, too, flicking his lighter.”

“His lighter?”

“One of those Vietnam War lighters. Metal. Had a war eagle on it. He could whip up a flame with just a flick of his thumb.” There was a pause as he looked around before continuing. “I don’t want to get into any trouble talking to you. Let me get the bike into the alley, and I’ll call it a cigarette break.”

They went into an alley next to the restaurant, and Jack could see that the man’s bike lock and chain wouldn’t match up with the cylindrical key in his pocket.
But there had been no lighter on the body. Had it fallen out somewhere, maybe in the river? Along with his ID and his money?

The man lit up a cigarette, offered one to Jack.

He declined. “What was his job here?”

“Like me. Deliveries,” the man said, answering between puffs.

“Only deliveries?”

“Well, they let him wait tables for one shift, but he wasn’t happy with that.”

“Unhappy? Why’s that?”

“They gave him one day a week off deliveries because he’d gotten robbed. He was nervous about deliveries.”

“What about the robbery?”

“We’ve all been robbed. Some got hurt.” He drew deep on the cigarette. “He didn’t like delivering to the projects. And he’d been robbed before, at his last job.”

“And where was that?”

“Gum Gwok, not far from here.” The Golden City was still fresh in Jack’s mind.

“Did he seem depressed?” Jack asked. “Or angry?”

“He was mad that the restaurant wouldn’t cover his losses from the mugging.”

“From working at Gum Gwok or here?” Jack continued.

“Both, I guess. He was angry with them all. They didn’t even offer him back what they took out of his tips. Then he quit.”

“When was this?” asked Jack, trying to get a read on the dead man’s recent frame of mind.

“It was in January. After Chinese New Year.”

“Know where he went?”

“No idea.”

The noisy clatter of kitchen work from inside the rear door interrupted them for a moment. “Do you know where he was from?”

“Not sure. He said he’d been a student, but needed to work and hoped to get something in Chinatown.”

“Why Chinatown?”

“He said his village association was there, and maybe they would help.” He worked his cigarette almost to the end.
The Gee Association
, Jack suspected, knew more than it was telling.

“What happened with the robberies?”

“You mean the police? Sing didn’t go. Said it was useless. A waste of time. He’d only lose another day’s pay.”

“So he didn’t report it?”

The man shook his head
no
as he finished his cigarette. “I don’t think so.” He answered Jack’s frown, saying, “I got robbed once. At knifepoint. Three guys against me, on a bike. The bosses didn’t help, but I reported it.”

“And what happened?” Jack asked.

“I went into the station and looked at photographs. But it happened at night. It was dark. They all wore hoodies, and they all looked about the same. I remembered the
knives
more than the faces, and I couldn’t pick out anyone for sure.”

“It’s good that you reported it,” Jack advised. “At least the cops know about it, could look out for crime like that.”

The man didn’t look convinced, changed the subject. “I lost two hundred dollars,” he said bitterly.

Jack redirected the talk. “Where did he live, this brother, Singarette?”

“
Mox-say-go
,” he said, grinning. “He was joking that he was living with Mexicans.”