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mean ghetto streets of Highbridge, Tremont, Morrisania, where the immigrant Chinese restaurants served and delivered to the gwai lo devils at their own peril. Hard and bitter mining, ngai phoo , eking out a living in the gum shan, in the mountains of gold.
    A bleak ghettoscape flashed by outside the train windows as the subway emerged aboveground. Always moving , he heard Ah Por saying inside his head.

Speak No Evil
    B ILLY LOOKED UP from the steamy foo jook bean sticks as the English secretary entered the Tofu King.
    “ Du mort yah? ” Billy asked, working his slang Toishanese. “What? Add something to the Chin order?”
    The secretary glanced around, nodded toward a back room. “Let’s talk in your office,” he said.
    “Sure,” Billy said, pulling off the sanitary plastic gloves. It was how they usually tallied their tofu orders. They went into the small makeshift office, and Billy closed the door.
    “What’s up?” Billy asked, turning to see the man reaching into his coat. The motion froze Billy momentarily, made him think of his gun in the desk drawer. But what came out of the coat was a fresh pint bottle of Johnnie Walker Black, which he placed on the desk.
    “About your chaai lo police friend,” the secretary started with a frown. Billy put two clean shot glasses on the desk, and they sat down.
    “You weren’t much help.” Billy smiled disarmingly. The man snap-twisted off the cap and pushed the bottle toward Billy.
    “Those restaurants belong to Jook Mun Gee,” the secretary began. “And I don’t want to go near whatever this is.”
    “Jook Mun Gee?” Billy said, interest piqued.
    “Correct.”
    Billy poured two big shots from the small bottle.
    “And I can’t involve the association,” the man continued.
    Billy raised his glass, said, “I understand completely.”
    They clinked, and each threw back a full swallow.
    “Off the record,” Billy said as he refilled their glasses. “My cop friend.” He toasted. “He’ll appreciate the favor.”

Backtrack
    J ACK GOT OFF at Mount Eden and decided to check out the two restaurants closer to the West Side lines, then work his way back farther west to the river, where the other two restaurants were. The takeouts’ addresses appeared to be at least six city blocks apart, as if they’d agreed to keep the spacing fair and even, not be too close so as to eat out of each other’s golden rice bowl.
    The only people on the streets looked die-hard ghetto, sullen, but the two “Lucky” restaurants weren’t too far off the beaten track of burned-out tenements, graffitied, abandoned buildings, and vacant lots.
    The first place, Lucky Dragon on West Tremont, was just a hole-in-the-wall fast-food takeout joint. The shop looked worn down, neglected, like it’d had a hard-luck history. Hopeful immigrants looking for their piece of the American Dream , thought Jack.
    There were no customers, and Jack wondered if they’d just opened for the day.
    He didn’t see a delivery bike anywhere, but inside it was a typical mom-and-pop takeout counter with no seating. You bought food like it was a ghetto liquor store: cash went into a teller’s slot, where a girl took your order and made change. The eggroll specials came out from behind the Plexiglas, boxed and bagged to go. No hanging around.
    Protocols of the streets ruled, Jack knew, like the dealers on the corners.
    Cop and go, yo. Don’t be lingering at this motherfucka …
    No problema, hombre. Buy and blow .
    No troubles, man. Five-oh on the roll .
    Farther behind the Plexiglas was a fast-food kitchenette where a middle-aged Chinese husband-and-wife team was firing up the dark woks and preparing soups and side dishes for the lunch special rush. Fried rice, eggroll, and a discount can of no-name soda: $2.99 . No delively.
    Jack badged the cashier girl, who called out to the man at the wok, who turned and looked at Jack a long moment before waving him in. The girl pressed a buzzer until he went through a