Henry Chang - Chinatown Beat

"I'm going to punish the bad man who hurt you. But I'm going to need your help."

The girl hugged the bear. Through the bedroom window, Jack could see the afternoon darkening, the overcast day running toward its end.

"I'm going to take a walk with ah por-grandma. Sook-sookuncle-will stay with you. When I come back I'm going to ask you some questions, okay?"

"Okay," the girl answered, her voice barely audible.

Speaks English, Jack noted as he turned toward the front door.

They took the stinking elevator up, then the hallway stairs, climbing the steps up to the landing, the old woman leading the way.

Grandmother pointed to where the girl had sat, bleeding, on the cement floor. She had feared her granddaughter was dead. In the waning light of the afternoon, Jack could see no visible clues, no articles of evidence left behind anywhere, only the stillness of the cinderblock enclosure. Crime Scene Unit. They might have the resources and the equipment to take it further. Sex Crimes Unit, maybe. Break out the bloodlights, and all that high-tech gear… But there was nothing here.

They were walking back down the graffiti-tagged stairwell, Jack keeping an eye out for evidence, when his radio blared. It was Sarge Paddy's voice over the static.

"SCU's down by you. They need to know what apartment."

"Sixteen," Jack barked, "apartment sixteen."

They stepped over the puddles of urine, past hypodermic needles and empty beer cans, until they reached their landing.

SCU came out of the elevator just as they approached the apart ment, two white female undercover detectives, one more mannish than the other. Jack introduced himself, gave one his detective's card and handed over all the information he'd jotted down. The one with the short spiky haircut looked over the sheet of paper and complimented Jack on his thoroughness. Jack explained that he hadn't interviewed the victim yet, but believed the girl spoke English.

"We'll take it from here then," the taller one said. "Thanks for your help."

"Sounds like the same perp from the case in the 0-Six," the other added. "Another Chinese girl, about the same age. But this was in the projects on the West Side. The Varick Houses, near the Holland Tunnel."

"Can you get me some composite sketches?"Jack asked, showing interest. "Also a picture of the victim?"

"Be in your mailbox at the 0-Five," said the taller one. "First thing tomorrow."

"Thanks." Jack nodded. "I'll see what I can squeeze out of the neighborhood."

"That's a bet," she said, breaking a smile.

All together, they entered the apartment.

The father stepped forward, away from the mother who remained near the small kitchenette, and stood squarely in front of the white gwai por, women detectives.

"Don't be nervous," Jack warned him in a loud enough voice to command him to back off. "These are policewomen. Detectives. They will help take your daughter to the hospital. They will spare you the paperwork."

The father watched Jack silently.

"Sometimes women understand women better," Jack added. The father took a breath and silently gave in, stepping back as the female detectives followed the grandmother to the far bedroom.

"Go with them," he said to the girl's mother.

Jack stood with the uncle and the father, the three men quiet in the kitchen area. Jack could see the detectives working the girl in the bedroom, reassuring her. He saw the panda's legs swinging, shifting in the girl's embrace.

In five minutes they'll have her enroute to Downtown Hospital or Gou- veneur General. Administer a rape kit. CaptureDNA. One of the SCU would process the crime scene, double-check with a flashlight, and again in daylight.

The girl hugged the panda as she left with the tall detective, throwing Jack a sorrowful look, on her small face a sad and fearful smile. The mother went along.

Alone with the uncle at the door, Jack said, "I'll need a photograph of your niece." The uncle gave him one from his wallet, a school picture with a sky-blue background.

"Her father is talking about going to the elders of his village association," the uncle said, "to get something going."

Jack knew what he meant, that they'd do their own investigation. He gave the uncle a Detective's Endowment Association card. "Call me if you hear anything," Jack said, before he entered the elevator. The orange glow of the sunset was barely above the horizon of the West Side as he walked back toward the stationhouse and the Fury. He felt a growl in his stomach, and for a second considered taking his meal break, but he had no appetite. Instead, the knot that was clenching in his gut reminded him how vicious the world was to the innocents who could not defend themselves. How does a cop get help from a community that has no faith in officers of the law?"

He went past the groups of black gangsta toughs gathering in the projects, all do-rags and gold-capped teeth, and turned his thoughts to the colors of the neon lights blinking in Chinatown in the distance. In his heart, filled with hate, he was wishing he could put his hands on this cowardly unknown molester of children and slowly choke the life from him.

Tat "Lucky" Louie sat on the edge of the futon in the dark bedroom of the Bridgeview condo and gathered his clothes around him. He strapped on a gold Rolex and dressed in a hurry.

Lucky was a dailo-elder brother and leader-of the brotherhood of the Ghost Legion. In another mob he would have been a capo, maybe a lieutenant. The On Yee bigshots, rivals of the Hip Ching, gave him a piece of their two-card parlors, and he had two young crews that answered to him. One crew for the streets, a couple dozen wiry teenage toughs, all Hong Kong Chinese, guncrazy and wild-eyed. The second crew was for special jobs: kidnapping, enforcing, robbery, whatever became necessary. A dozen real warriors, refugees from hellholes across Southeast Asia: a half-breed Thai boy, two Cambodians, six Vietnamese Chinese, and Kongo, the big dark Malay who never spoke, who always had the cut-off scatter gun on his hip. When the Ghosts went out on a war party, it was this crew of hotheads their enemies feared most, his pack of crazed sociopaths.

The morning light crept in along the edges of the window blinds, and he stepped into his black Versace loafers. He left the gunmetal-gray silk jacket open, loose-fitting cover for a five-ten frame that was twenty pounds overweight. It had gone to flab, new gut hanging where muscle had given way to beer and fatty fastfood dinners. It didn't matter, he didn't need to fight anymore. He had face on the streets, and face was everything.

He slipped a box-cutter into his jacket pocket.

The Fukienese, he thought, didn't care about face, and needed to be taught a lesson. Their Fuk Ching lowboys wanted a gangbang over East Broadway, they were going to get it. He knew how, but that would come later, after he'd fixed it with Uncle Four, to keep the Black Dragons out of the way.

There was a truce on.

He was lucky. He had outlived those above him who had burned brighter, lived faster, died younger. When the Feds had cleaned out the last of the Ghost Legion's upper ranks ten years earlier, he'd inherited his position by default. The Legion had to rebuild, and he'd been all they had left.

The door slammed behind him, and he went down, watching the elevator light drop the five levels. The new day was a pale flat wash of morning, broken by clouds, a filtering of sunlight. He turned out to Mott Street and quickened his pace, wanting to get to fay por-fat lady-Fat Lily's mahjong parlor early, while the girls were still fresh and clean. He didn't like the idea of walking into sloppy fifths, behind some phlegmy Hakkanese butcher. It didn't matter how many men the girls had had the night before. Each day was new.