Free Death Money by Henry Chang

it, after the near-fatal encounter in Seattle. In his mind’s eye he saw it again, his six-shot speedloader slipping into the Colt’s open cylinder at the approach of a tong enforcer with a semiautomatic in his fist, aiming for the kill shot. It was a nightmare he’d have to tell the NYPD shrink about.
    The thought made him think about Alexandra, how she’d saved his life, but with the Bronx waiting in thedistance, he kept his eyes on the minivan. He’d considered switching over to a Smith & Wesson semiautomatic, a nine-millimeter piece, but most cops were favoring the new Glocks. The Glock 19 was a light twenty-three ounces unloaded, with a polymer frame and a fifteen-shot magazine. Hard to fault. But not a conversation he wanted with Billy.
    Jack also knew that, like Billy, other cops favored the Berettas. Italian made, and also a NATO standard. Then there was Smith & Wesson, flying the American flag. The M69 series was a double action, twenty-six ounces unloaded with a stainless alloy frame. It held thirteen shots and featured a combat trigger.
    Bottom line , Jack figured, fifteen shots are better than thirteen . Those last two shots could save your life, which he knew was what most NYPD cops believed. The Glock was lightweight and had the top capacity with the least recoil.
    He’d have to make a change soon.
    They crossed the bridge, and Jack quickly scanned the dark river below, wondering again where Chang’s body had entered the water.
    The Mustang blazed past Mott Haven and Hunts Point toward Pelham Bay. Before they knew it they’d crossed over into Westchester, the highway signs and the minivan leading them to the city of Yonkers and the racetrack.
    What Jack remembered about Yonkers was that it was home to a large Irish and Italian population, and that the city had refused to desegregate its public-school system. In many ways, it was cop land.
    A big billboard beckoned them to Yonkers Raceway.

Trotters
    A T Y ONKERS R ACEWAY the horses didn’t gallop around a mile-long track with diminutive jockeys on their backs, Jack knew, like at Aqueduct or Belmont Park. Instead, drivers sat in sulky rigs pulled by horses that trotted unnaturally around a half-mile oval.
    The old men went to the half-empty spectator grandstand and stood by the railing, the only Chinese at the track. Billy parked the car, and they walked to a spot near the men. Jack watched as Billy sidled up to them, eavesdropping at first, then engaging in small talk. Afterward, he drifted away toward the teller windows to place his bets.
    The men stayed put, and Jack realized that they’d already made their bets with the Chinatown bookies involved with the junket operation.
    Billy came back with a program and a fistful of tickets, surprising Jack by giving him three of them.
    “I overheard their bets,” Billy bragged. “Maybe we’ll get lucky.”
    The horses on Jack’s tickets, according to the program, were named Emperor’s Sword, Dragon’s Tale, and, to Jack’s amazement, Alexandra’s Choice. Their race position numbers spanning the first three races were 3, 6, and 8, all lucky Chinese numbers. The number 3 was a magic number. The number 6 sounded like “luck” in Cantonese, and number 8, bot , implied riches.
    Jack wasn’t surprised that the men had bet on those numbers, and probably not on the names of the horses.
    A moving gate led the sulkies to the start, and suddenly they were off, the horses trotting furiously for position. Thespectators all watched the colorful numbers on the eight sulkies chasing the leader around the oval track.

Lucky
    T HEY WON TWO out of the three races, placing in the third, with Billy whooping it up alongside the old men. He’d gotten close and had established a gambler’s hingdaai , or “camaraderie.”
    Jack figured it could come in handy later. His three tickets won him sixty-six dollars, which he offered back to Billy, who wouldn’t hear of it.
    The three races had taken almost an hour. For the