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notch at the end of the counter.
    “ Ni yao shen me? ” he asked Jack, working the oily ladle. “What do you want?” Mandarin , thought Jack, but with a Fukienese accent . The wife watched them, stirring a pot of simmering wonton broth as Jack showed the man the photo of the deceased.
    “Know this person?” Jack asked in his clipped Mandarin. The man glanced at the snapshot, shook his head, and, without missing a beat swirling the ladle, answered, “Wo bu zhidao,” I don’t know , as Jack showed him the menu scrap with the phone numbers.
    “ Bu zhidao ,” the man repeated as he seasoned the oil. Jack took a paper takeout menu from the counter, saw that it wasn’t a match.
    “Wo tai mangle .” The man shrugged apologetically. I’m too busy, don’t know nothing .
    Was it the typical Chinese reluctance to get involved again?
    The front door opened, and two homeless-looking Boricuas staggered in, jangling fistfuls of filthy coins. Jack felt he was wasting time and got a sympathetic look from the wife as she slid two eggrolls into the hot oil.
    He thanked them on the way out, passed the men who smelled like rum and stale pot. When he looked back, the cashier girl was counting the greasy pile of coins in the slot, a horrified smile on her face.
    T HE L UCKY P HOENIX was six blocks back through the gloom. Jack felt his luck needed to change and hoped the Phoenix would turn things around. Halfway there, he saw the neighborhood change ever so slightly; the streets seemed cleaner, and some of the Depression-era buildings had survived neglect and abuse.
    The Lucky Phoenix had a larger storefront than Lucky Dragon, with two small square tables against one wall and a window counter where customers could snack standing up. No Plexiglas except where it partitioned off the kitchen area.
    There was a bike locked to the window-gate rail.
    Jack tried the cylindrical key on the lock but got no fit.
    Inside were four customers eating, and a flurry of phone orders added to the brisk business scene. Jack took one of the paper menus from a wall rack and compared it with the evidence scrap.
    A perfect match, printwise, of the menu format. Jack felt his luck changing but waited for a break before quietly badging the counterman. The man yelled into the partitioned kitchen, and a manager type came out, a harried-looking Chinese man with an order pad in his hand. He saw Jack’s badge and motioned him over to a rear door open to a back alley.
    They stood there as Jack took out the photo while the man lit up a cigarette.
    “Seen him before?” Jack asked in quiet Cantonese.
    The manager took a long look over three drags on the butt.
    “Resembles someone,” he said finally, “who came looking for work. But we had enough help. He was friendly. Name was Zhang , I think.”
    Chang in Cantonese, Jack knew, became Zhang with those coming out of China, but the written character for both names was the same in Chinese:
    “When was this?” Jack asked.
    “It was still warm then. September. Maybe October.” Four months ago , but at least he’d picked up the trail, thought Jack.
    “Where’d he go after?”
    “ Boo ji dao ,” the man said with a smile and a shrug. I don’t know with a Hong Kong accent.
    Jack thanked him and followed the trail west into the Highbridge section. He looked around for a cab or bus but saw none and kept walking. The other two restaurants were close to University Avenue, almost a mile away.
    He moved at a brisk pace through the cold.
    The numbers are looking for money , Ah Por had said. Jack now knew the deceased Zhang had been looking for work and was calling these restaurants. But this was four months ago?
    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