Death Money Read Online Free PDF

mah-jongg games. Simple bench seating lined the two long walls. There were two racks of metal chairs and a line of card tables folded against the back wall. A few old black-and-white photos of the Gees’ village in China, including a group shot of the revered founding Gee elders, hung across the top of the main walls.
    There was an altar table in the far corner, near a back window.
    The man behind the desk in the office area looked to be in his fifties, mostly bald except for a few long strands of hair, which he had combed over across the top of his head. His attention was on the lid of the container of Chinese coffee on the desk, opening it without causing a spill.
    He was surprised to look up and see Billy.
    “Ah Gee doy !” Billy grinned, patting him across the shoulder. Gee boy! in his best Toishanese drawl.
    “ Dofu doy !” The man grinned back, putting the steamy cup aside. Tofu boy ! he said, turning his gaze to include Jack.
    “ Ngo pong yew ,” Billy introduced Jack. “He’s my friend.” It wasn’t a shake-hands moment, and both men nodded respectfully. Then Billy added, “ Chaai lo , he’s a cop.”
    The grin left the man’s face slowly as Jack flapped open his jacket and flashed his gold badge and, inadvertently, also the pistol butt sticking out of his waistband holster.
    “And he has some questions,” Billy continued, “maybe you can help him with.”
    “Of course,” the man answered, his mouth small now. “ If I can …”
    “Who answers the phone here?” Jack asked casually.
    “Whoever sits here,” the man answered. “Sometimes the vice president, but mostly me. If I go to lunch or step away on other duties, then any member can answer and take a message. It’s usually about banquet arrangements or funerals. Or group trips to the cemeteries.”
    Jack placed the plastic-bagged menu scrap on the desk. The man looked over the telephone numbers with the 888 prefixes diligently.
    “Those numbers mean anything to you?” Jack asked.
    “Not really, no.” There was caution in the man’s voice now.
    “Not familiar numbers?”
    “No.” He took a sip from the container of coffee.
    “Lucky Dragon? Lucky Phoenix?” Jack continued, “Any of these sound familiar? How about China Village? Or Golden City?”
    “They sound like Chinese restaurants,” the man offered.
    Jack asked, “Any idea why your association’s telephone number is grouped with those restaurants’ numbers?”
    “I have no idea.” But his face told a different story as the man began to back up, reconsidering a bigger involvement than he’d bargained for. He glanced at Billy, who remained intensely quiet during Jack’s interview. Billy, sitting in the catbird seat, offering no relief.
    Jack pressed, “Can I speak with the vice president? Or the president?”
    There was a pause as the man’s eyes left Billy and drifted back to the plastic baggie. He took another sip of coffee, enjoying it less now.
    “The president and the vice president are overseas,” he said, almost confidentially. “But they wouldn’t be involved in the day-to-day operations anyway. The positions are only ceremonial. Unofficially, I’m the English secretary, but I don’t receive all the calls.”
    “And you don’t log the calls?”
    “Who keeps a record of calls, anyway, these days? Only the phone company. And that’s because they want to bill you.”
    Jack placed the second baggie on the desk, showing the produce receipt from the body. “Does this look familiar?” he asked.
    “No,” the man said firmly after only a glance. “It looks like fruit.”
    Jack put the headshot of the deceased on the desk, next to the man’s container of coffee. “Ever see this man?” Jack quietly asked.
    “No” was his answer, his eyes dancing but lingering longer this time. “Sorry.” The face of death had turned him off, clammed him up, and Billy exchanged looks with Jack. Billy was a face of disappointment, and Jack couldn’t mask his