The Last Assassin

luxuriant as Dox had noted and as I remembered. I wished I could have been closer. I wanted to see more.
    I couldn’t help frowning at her innocence, though. She hadn’t even looked both ways as she came out of the club, let alone checked the surveillance hot spots. If she had, she would have made the Chinese kid in a heartbeat. He was standing exactly where you’d expect.
    She flagged down a cab and got in. The kid made no attempt to follow. He remained for a minute, finished his cigarette, then started heading toward my position. I went into the bar and watched from behind the glass door as he passed. It was darker inside the bar than it was on the streetlight-illuminated sidewalk without, and with the light reflecting on the glass outside I knew he wouldn’t be able to see me even if he were to look. But I got a good look at him.
    When he was safely past, I slipped out of the bar and fell in behind him. I knew Dox would be trailing me, per the plan.
    I hung well back in case the kid turned, but he never did. He just continued southeast into Chinatown. I watched him go into a seedy-looking noodle place on Mulberry, across from Columbus Park. I crossed the street and walked past from the park side. I saw him sit at a table across from an older, heavyset Chinese man with a bald head and a boxer’s nose.
    I couldn’t hear what the kid and the bald guy were saying, and even if I could it was probably in Chinese. But from their postures I sensed they didn’t much care for each other. The kid sat slumped in his chair almost sullenly. At one point, he must have said something disrespectful, because the bald guy stood up and cuffed the kid across the head, twice. The shots didn’t look too hard—more something intended to humiliate and establish dominance. After that the kid sat up straighter and the bald guy sat back down.
    Dox walked past the restaurant, and I knew he was taking more pictures. The flash was off and they’d be grainy, but Tatsu had people who could enhance them. Dox returned to his position behind me and we watched for a few minutes more, but there wasn’t much else to learn. I noted the name and address of the place, then we linked up outside the park and headed over to a twenty-four-hour diner, where we compared notes and planned the next night.
    When we were done, Dox said, “Assuming that’s all for the night, I’d like to go back to the diner where I left the alluring Miss Jasmine. She’s hot for me, I can tell.”
    “Plus her meter is running,” I suggested.
    He laughed. “Yeah, and she’s got the kind of meter I like to feed. See you tomorrow, amigo.”
    While Dox was off getting my money’s worth, I went to an Internet café to upload the photos and other information to Tatsu.
    When the message and upload were done, I called Tatsu to give him a heads-up to check our bulletin board. He didn’t sound good when I spoke to him. His normally quiet but assured voice was raspy and he sounded like he was making an effort to talk. When I asked, he told me it was the flu.
    Yeah, we were both getting older. I wanted to be done with this soon.

7
    T HE NEXT MORNING , I went to another Internet café and checked the bulletin board. There was a message waiting: the Chinese kid’s name was Eddie Wong. He was a ma jai , a foot soldier with a New York branch of United Bamboo, the Taiwanese triad, and the noodle place on Mulberry was their headquarters. Wong was only twenty-two, but he had an extensive criminal record in his hometown of Taipei, mostly drug smuggling but also extortion. He was known to carry a Balisong, the Filipino butterfly knife, and apparently was quick to use it.
    The bald guy I’d seen him talking to was Waiyee Chan, the local gang’s dai lo , or leader. If the gang leader was meeting directly with a mere soldier, Tatsu suggested, the matter must be important to the leader personally. United Bamboo had been at war with the yakuza in Tokyo, but currently there was an uneasy accommodation there. Tatsu speculated that the lull was the result of United Bamboo’s assistance to Yamaoto in New York in exchange for some quid pro quo in Japan, just as Dox and I had speculated earlier. He was trying to find out more.
    That night, Dox and I set up as we had the previous evening. This time, when Dox called me to confirm that Wong was at Zinc again, I got up and headed to the West Village.
    I was more heavily disguised than before. I had a wig sprouting from under the baseball cap,