"There's no one home," said Morris after a few minutes. "They must all be at the beach."

n.o.body at the house spoke of what had happened at the beach. Marlene tried to thank Sophie, but came up against that lady's remarkably well-developed ability to place unhappy or violent events outside her consciousness. Jake was a sphinx in general, and when the girls and Bryan returned, Marlene was aware of her reluctance to involve the policewoman. The center of attention that afternoon was, in fact, Posie, and Posie's sunburn. When she emerged from her room, mottled, blistered, stinking of Noxema, Zik burst into tears, and Sophie, after a brief inspection in the bathroom, decided that she had to be taken over to the emergency room at Long Beach Memorial. Jake volunteered to run the two of them over in his Lincoln.

When they were gone, Marlene slipped into Sophie's bedroom and used the phone, charging the call to her office number.

"Guma? This is Marlene. Comu stati?"

"Champ? Jeez, you're the first call I had in three days. I'm some kind of non-person now, like in Russia."

"You're holding up, though."

"Yeah, yeah. The f.u.c.king press is camped outside, so I can't go out. I'm watching my Jane Goodall tape. Christ, that woman turns me on, those long legs in those little shorts-be honest, Marlene, do you think I got a shot at Jane Goodall?"

"To be honest? I think you don't look quite enough like a chimpanzee."

Guma laughed. "G.o.d, Marlene, I think that's the nicest thing you ever said about me. How's by you? Got sand in all your orifices?"

"So far, so good. Look, Goom, I need to pick your brain. Ever hear of a Jake Gurvitz?"

"Hm, Jake Gurvitz, Jake Gurvitz . . . oh, yeah, late thirties, forties, into the fifties, a labor goon, a head breaker, a Brooklyn guy, he came up with all those Murder Incorporated Jewish fellas, Pittsburgh Phil, Kid Twist Reles, and all of them. Worked for, let's see, he worked for Albert Anastasia, and after Albert got clipped in fifty-two, he worked for the Bollano outfit. As a contractor."

"He did murders?"

"Not that we could ever prove. A slick guy. They called him Jake the Baker, or Bakin' Jake. The feds finally got him for some d.i.c.ky little thing like the feds do, tax evasion or perjury, I forget. He did a jolt in Marion, early sixties or so, and I guess he must've kicked off, because he sure hasn't shown up recently. What's your interest?"

"Oh, just following up on something. Why did they call him Jake the Baker? Because of the baker's union connection?"

"That, and he used to put guys in bake ovens and turn on the flames. You p.i.s.s him off, he turns you into a bagel. A real sweetheart, from what I heard."

Marlene had scarcely hung up the phone and had not even begun to digest Guma's story when Lucy popped in.

"Can we go shopping in Long Beach? We need some things."

"Things? What things?"

"Oh, you know, items. Mary wants to get a bathing suit. I need new sungla.s.ses, and a hat. Could we?"

"I'll talk to Detective Bryan. And anyway, we have to wait until the twins wake up."

"Why do we have to take them? Why don't we just go now, the three of us? It won't take more than an hour at the most."

Marlene sighed. She didn't need this just now, and she was thinking that it would be a good idea to go up to her bedroom and turn on the fan and, after a slow shower, lie naked on the white bedspread and drift off herself. She said, "Lucy, you're forgetting the situation. We have to stay with Detective Bryan."

"We could walk over to Beach Bazaar, it's not that far. Come on, Mom, nothing's going to happen."

"Lucy! Are you completely nuts? I said . . ." A glare with this hot enough to fry eggs.

"Okay, okay, you don't have to yell." Lucy flounced off, muttering, leaving Marlene to reflect that her daughter, despite her gifts and the remarkable resourcefulness and sophistication she often displayed, was not immune to the fits of brainlessness that afflict adolescents. She did not know whether to be annoyed or happy at this. She lay back on Sophie's bed, still in her bathing suit, and conked out, to be awakened after what seemed like four minutes by the twins, who were cranky and demanding of different and incompatible things, and had to be cozened by the promise of a commercial expedition.

The children ran happily into the Volvo, Marlene drove, Bryan rode shotgun, and everyone else piled into the backseat. Marlene locked the door, and they set out. In the house behind them, the phone rang.

"Where could they be?" Karp asked.

"Gosh, Butch, for crying out loud, I said they're at the beach," replied Morris. "I mean, that's what you do, you're at a beach house, you go to the beach."

"Well, we're out of that traffic anyway."

"Yeah, relax, we'll be there in twenty minutes."

What I should really do now, thought Leung, is open the door of this van, get out, and simply walk away. I should walk to the nearest public transport, go back to Manhattan, get the money, and leave. Their route from Queens to Long Beach had taken them on the Cross Bay Boulevard, where the airliners roared overhead on their way to and from JFK Airport. He wanted to be on one of those planes, headed east, instead of in this van, heading to an unplanned operation, with four frightened local ma jai, and the crazy Vietnamese gangster and the resentful boy they'd just s.n.a.t.c.hed. But he had no money, not for a ticket, or to buy a fake pa.s.sport, or even to bribe his way into a freight container. All his money was in Chinatown, and all the money in the world would do him no good as long as the girl was free and able to talk. If the girl could be taken, without notice, then he could recoup, slip back into federal protection, testify against the Italians, then vanish and change into someone else, after which the rest of the plan would be simple to accomplish.

He leaned back and lit another cigarette, although the air in the van held so much smoke that it was hardly necessary. He looked out the window. The van had turned left after leaving the Cross Bay Bridge and was now heading down a wide road, moving slowly in the heavy traffic. It was some sort of holiday, it seemed, which might be helpful in the event an escape became necessary. Another bridge and a smaller road, this one leading through a beach community, low houses and one-story shops. Park Street, Leung read on a sign. Vo had a map spread out, and he was barking directions in bad Cantonese at the boy driving, a White Dragon named Lau, the sole American-born Chinese in the group. Presently, after several wrong turns, they came to a large white house with a pillared porch. Vo was about to jump from the van as soon as it stopped, but Leung placed a restraining hand on his shoulder from behind.

"Wait. We don't know who is at home. There are no cars in the driveway. Perhaps they have already left." Leung felt a faint surge of relief. If they had gone back to their residence, if they had picked up their normal routine again, taking the child would be vastly simpler. They waited. In the house nothing stirred, no sounds of occupation came through the open windows.

"They've left," said Leung. "Let's go."

Lau said, "That doesn't make sense. Why would they leave? It's the Fourth of July weekend. They're probably just down at the beach."

"That's right," said Vo. "We should wait."

"But not here, in front of the house," said Leung. "Drive on, and turn left at the corner."

As they turned past that junction, another Dodge van approached from the direction of Park Street. It could have been the twin of theirs, except that it had tinted windows and was black, where theirs was gray. The vans pa.s.sed each other slowly, their speed suited to the narrow, sand-dusted residential street.

Freddie Phat, at the wheel of the black van, made a startled movement and craned his neck to look at the other vehicle as it pa.s.sed.

"What's wrong?" asked Tran, who sat beside him in the front seat.

"Strange. It looked like Kenny Vo sitting in the pa.s.senger seat of that van."

"Stop!" cried Tran. "Turn around and follow it!"

Phat hit the gas pedal, shot forward to the next intersection, and spun the van skidding around. The three hard faces in the back rocked, and their automatic rifles clattered on the floor.

"That's their car," Leung shouted.

"Where? Where?" Lau saw nothing ahead but empty roadway.

"An orange Volvo," said Leung excitedly. "It just pa.s.sed the next intersection, going to the left."

Lau accelerated, turned, and soon they had the square orange car in view. "Stay back," Leung ordered. "I don't want them to see us. That's good, let a car get between us. They are heading for the shops. Good, they're slowing, they're turning into that parking lot. Follow them! No, no, not right next to their car! Idiot! Park over there, right next to the exit. Good."

They parked. The lot was crowded with shoppers and their cars, as were the narrow sidewalks of the shopping strip, which was anch.o.r.ed by the Beach Bazaar and a large Grand Union super-market. Those in the back crowded forward so they could see out the windshield, from which they had an excellent view of the Volvo. As they watched, its pa.s.sengers left, the two girls running into the Beach Bazaar, a substantial emporium whose striped steel awnings dripped with beach chairs, inflated animal-shaped swimming toys, large beach b.a.l.l.s, air mattresses.

"Who is that black woman?" Vo asked.

"A nursemaid, no doubt," said Leung. "She is not significant. Our luck has changed, it appears. I am going to examine the situation in the store. All of you, wait here and do nothing!"

He was gone ten minutes. When he returned, he was carrying two yellow smock shirts, embroidered with the logo of the Beach Bazaar and the names of two employees. Back in his seat, he said, "It is perfect. They are scattered throughout the store, and the girls are isolated in the swimming costume area. This is what we will do. Lau and Eng will stay with the car. I and Vo and Cowboy will enter the store. Cowboy and I will wear these shirts. Cai and Yang will take up a position outside the store. The girl knows Cowboy; that will put her off her guard. He will lead her to the back of the store. I will join him there, and together we will take her through the stockroom, to the rear exit. There is an alley there, and a loading dock. When Vo has seen us enter, he will signal to Lau, and he will take the car around to the alley, get us and the girl, and then come around and pick up the three others."

"What about the other girl?" asked Vo.

"If she sees anything, we will take her, too," said Leung. "Does everyone understand what he is to do? Cowboy?"

The youth nodded sullenly. Leung asked each of the others and, where there was doubt or confusion, gave crisp instruction. They were nothing like a Hong Kong triad team, he thought, but far better than Red Guards, and it should be a simple operation. In and out.

There was an odd smell in the store, an old-fashioned place with circulating ceiling fans, wooden floor, a high, stamped tin ceiling, long counters, and bins. Cowboy thought it must be some sort of confection; it was sweet and heavy, and to him as exotic as five-spice powder would have been to nearly all of the store's clientele. It was crowded with these, and getting more crowded as people came in to pick up the various necessities they had forgotten to pack in their rush to leave the heat of the city for the big weekend.

Cowboy walked quickly to the place Leung had indicated, where swimsuits hung on chromed racks and headless, armless models showed them off. He could not see Lucy, and felt a sudden and surprising sense of relief. Perhaps they had suspected something and fled. But no, he now saw a short Asian girl selecting suits with intense concentration, reading the price tags and the labels as if they were oracles. She did not notice Cowboy.

Then the curtain that led to the changing room was thrust briskly aside, and there she was right in front of him, swimsuits draped over her arm. She saw him.

"Cowboy? What are you doing here?" she asked in Vietnamese, looking curiously at his shirt, which bore the name iris embroidered in red thread.

"I have to see, I mean, to talk to you. It's very important."

Lucy looked over at Mary, who was utterly absorbed in the mathematics of a.s.sessing clothing value, and nodded to Cowboy. She tossed her suits over the top of a rack and followed Cowboy toward the back of the store.

"In here," said Cowboy, pushing open the swinging door to the stockroom. Lucy went through, and Leung grabbed her, clapping his hand over her mouth and pressing a pistol muzzle into her back. He pulled her into a dark alcove formed by large cardbord crates containing plastic swimming pools. In Cantonese he said, "Is it true that you can speak Cantonese?"

She nodded. He said, "Are you going to scream or do anything foolish?"

She shook her head, and he removed his hand from her mouth. She looked at Cowboy and said, in Vietnamese, "With Heaven rest all matters here below: harm people and they'll harm you in their turn. Perfidious humans who do fiendish deeds shall suffer, and cry mercy in vain." Cowboy reacted as if slapped. He looked away from her, his jaw quivering. Every Vietnamese knows the scene where Kieu and her lover, Tu, the rebel chieftain, take revenge on all who have abused her.

"What did she say?" Leung demanded.

"Nothing," Cowboy mumbled. "Just some poetry."

Leung snapped, "Go out to the loading dock and see if they are there." Cowboy trotted off.

Leung turned Lucy around and gave her an appraising look. He shook his head. "Incredible! So you speak Vietnamese, too, even poetry. You know the saying, cai tai, cai tai, and so on?"

"Yes, because of the rhyme. Talent and disaster are twins."

"Particularly true, it seems, in your case. You have caused me an enormous amount of trouble, little girl."

"Are you going to kill me?"

"I suppose I will have to, although it seems a shame. There is a white-girl brothel in Macao that would pay nearly anything for someone like you. Perhaps I will pump you full of heroin and pack you in an air-freight container. How would you like that?"

"I think it would be wisest to kill me. If you did that other thing, I would escape and find you, wherever you were, and eat your heart."

To Lucy's vast surprise, Leung replied in English with a decided New York accent, "Oh, don't be a schmuck!" He looked at his watch and said, in the same voice, "Where the f.u.c.k is that G.o.dd.a.m.n kid? What is he, jerking off out there?"

Lucy's linguistic curiosity overwhelmed her fear and burst forth. In English, she asked, "Where did you learn to talk like that?"

Leung switched back to Cantonese. "You are impressed. To confess the truth, I have only a few phrases like that. I learned my English from an American, a native of this city, in Macao. I was escaping from the Cultural Revolution, and I had a septic wound in my leg. It was from being beaten with chains and thrown into a vat of pig manure. He took me in and taught me a great deal about your wonderful country before-"

Cowboy came running then, a worried look on his face.

"They are not there," he blurted.

Kenny Vo was pacing to and fro in the front aisle of the Beach Bazaar, where they kept the shopping carts and the soda machines. He kept looking out of the window, expecting the gray van to pull up with Leung and Cowboy and the girl. But the van did not come. The parking lot was growing more crowded.

It was not hard for Tran and his a.s.sociates to overpower Lau and Eng. They simply worked their way crouching through the parked cars, appeared at the unlocked side door of the gray van, jumped in, and stuck pistols in the faces of the amazed White Dragons. Nor was it difficult to get the details of Leung's plan from Eng, who was, in fact, one of the two ma jai Tran had s.n.a.t.c.hed earlier, and he required no additional demonstration of what lengths Tran would go to in order to extract information.

Tran snapped out directions for the counterattack and left Freddie Phat and one of his men in the van, while he walked out into the parking lot with the two others. They spread out, winding through the cars, stepping lightly around the cl.u.s.ters of harried parents and their children, the clumps of teens in bright beach wear, the occasional slow-moving elderly couple. Each of the Vietnamese carried a long beach bag tucked under his right arm.

Vo looked through the plate gla.s.s and saw them coming. He let out a curious high-pitched cry. The checkout ladies and their customers looked up. They saw a stocky Asian man in a sports jacket, dark trousers, and black loafers-not dressed for the beach. The man let out another sound, this one a combination groan and hiss, as if from a pressure vessel about to pop its safety valve. The nearest checkout lady raised her hand to attract the attention of a manager.

Vo saw the man who had ruined his life walking toward him; the rage burned away the last of his modest store of rationality. He yanked the machine pistol from his waistband and directed a stream of automatic fire at his enemy. He fired one-handed in his zeal and the weapon flew upward, blowing out the plate-gla.s.s window in a hail of shards before directing bullets at the parking lot and the sky. He heard something snap-snap-snap past his head. He dropped to the floor. Someone was shooting a Kalashnikov at him, disciplined fire in three-round bursts, the habit of the thrifty little army he knew so well. On his knees, sheltered by the bulk of a Pepsi machine, he fired the rest of the magazine blindly out the vacant window, and fumbled to replace it with a fresh one.

Sounds of firing came from outside as the two White Dragons blasted away; then that firing ceased. More bullets came flying into the store, in the same precise rhythm. An overhead fixture shattered, raining gla.s.s onto customers and staff cowering in the aisles. People were screaming, shouting. Vo couldn't think in all the noise. He wanted to shoot the screaming people. When the new magazine finally clicked in, he cautiously peeked around the Pepsi machine to find a target.

"Drop the gun! Now!" It was a woman's voice, and American, behind him. Behind him? Vo spun on his knees. It was the nursemaid, crouching low, pointing a gun at him. The nursemaid? He raised his weapon, and Detective Bryan shot him through the chest four times with her service revolver.

Around this scene, chaos. A hundred or so screaming people were attempting to leave by the two exit doors, parents were crying for their children, children were howling their heads off, several brave souls leaped through the broken window, a couple of men knocked Detective Bryan down as they rushed by. One person, however, brooked the human tide and walked calmly through the one-way entrance door.

Leung heard the automatic fire from the front of the store and realized that something had gone badly wrong. The plan was therefore finished. A shame, but he had already accomplished much. He would have to escape and attempt, somehow, to recoup. But first.

Cowboy saw the Chinese point his pistol at Lucy's head. Without a thought his arm shot out and struck Leung's elbow. The gun exploded. Lucy reeled backward, tripped on a low carton, and fell sprawling to the floor. Leung stared for a moment at Cowboy, unbelievingly, and then shot the boy twice in the chest. The youth fell, grasping at Leung, hooking his hand on Leung's trouser pocket, ripping the fabric and tearing the pocket out as he collapsed. Coins jingled and sc.r.a.ps of paper flew to the floor. Leung cursed, ignored the coins, scrabbled for the small papers.

Leung heard a voice shout in a language he did not understand. It sounded a little like the Portuguese he had picked up in Macao, and he recognized the name, Lucy. He had to kill the girl quickly and get away. But where was the girl? He saw the gap in the pile of cartons. She had wriggled into some crevice. The shout again. Steps, coming closer. Leung fired some shots blindly at the cartons and took off, dodging down the narrow aisles. He saw the daylight of the loading dock and ran toward it. There were pursuing steps. He ignored them and raced on, out onto the loading dock and down into the service alley.

"Fireworks must be starting early," observed Karp as they rolled down Park Street in Long Beach.

Ed Morris frowned. "That's not fireworks, Butch. Somebody's shooting auto."

Then they heard the sirens. "What should we do?" Morris asked.

It did not take Karp long to decide. The possibility that someone was firing an automatic weapon in a beachside community in which his wife was resident and that the discharge did not in some manner involve his wife was too remote to be credible.

"Follow the sirens," he said, his heart bouncing yet again into his throat.

"Lucy, are you there? He is gone. You may emerge now."

Hearing Tran's voice, Lucy crawled on hands and knees from her hiding place. She crawled backward, for the s.p.a.ce in which she had wedged herself was barely eighteen inches wide. She felt wetness on her bare knees, and then on her hands. When she was free of the tunnel, she turned and saw Tran and saw that the wetness was Cowboy's blood, spreading out from his body, looking black in the dim fluorescent light, like the blood in the Asia Mall stockroom, from the men Leung and . . .

"Is he going to die?" she asked. There was a piece of white paper stuck to her knee in blood. She pulled it off and crumpled it in her fist.

"I think so," said Tran. "He is shot through the lung and blowing bright blood."

"Did you kill Leung?"

"No, I didn't see him. I heard someone running away, but I first wanted to see that you were safe." He paused. "I must go now. Some of the Chinese have been shot, and I do not wish for my friends and I to be imprisoned." He shook his beach bag, which made a Kalashnikovish noise against the floor.

"I'll see you," said Lucy.