In theory.

Chinatown belongs to the Lantern Jacks. Used to be Majestic Immortal territory but those dumb fuckers imploded about ten years back – of all things, it was family that set them on a course for self-destruction. Head of the gang, Big Chang, was married to this ball-buster, Lirong. Chang got around: had a thing for some dominatrix named Orchid on the Upper East Side. Lirong got tired of it, fucked Big Chang’s brother, Little Chang. Big found out. The Chang brothers got into a very public pissing match, broke the gang in two, huge fight in the street – and Lirong was the one who ended it all. Walked into the fray, shot both of them, then walked back out. Never seen again. Gang fell apart. Lantern Jacks – white boys, not Chinese – strolled in with their pumpkin masks and their scarecrow rags, took the place over.

And now one of them stands before Mookie.

He hears footsteps behind him.

More creeping in. He glances over his shoulder, sees three of ’em back there. One of them has a thick chain ill-concealed behind his leg, the end of it draped on the ground like the head of a dead python.

“Outta my way,” Mookie says.

“You Blazing?” the Jack in front of him says, then cackles. These assholes, always with the theatrics. “You carrying the Blue? Huh?”

Behind him are snickers and hisses. The chain rattles.

“You know who I am?”

From behind him, one whispers, “Mookie Pearl.”

“Good. So you know to get the fuck outta my way.”

“Give us what you got, Pearl.”

The skinny Jack in front of him flicks his wrist – a straight razor gleams.

“We got a truce,” Mookie says.

“Do we?”

More cackles.

“Last I checked. You want to throw it away?”

The razor flashes in the air. Slicing a figure eight. The skinny Jack’s bag makes a crinkle-noise as he thrusts his tongue out of the mouth slit, waggling it.

Footsteps behind him. The Jacks are moving in.

Ballsy. Real ballsy. And stupid. And with the next thing the skinny Jack says, it makes sense–

“Sure glad I don’t have cancer.” Way he says that last word, it’s a droning weasel-whine: caaaaanceeeeeeer. Another happy cackle. “We heard the word. Persephone’s telling everybody.”

Shit. Nora. “So that’s what this is. Boss is fine. Healthy as a champion horse.”

Hesitation. The skinny one lets the razor hang. Takes a half-step back with one foot.

“You’re lying.”

“And you’re about to be lying, too. Lying dead.” Not his best line, but Mookie’s not real good at the banter. For extra spice he adds, “You little shit.”

Skinny Jack screeches like an owl.

It’s on. He rushes at Mookie, razor out at the side like a Samurai making a charge against a mounted soldier–

Mookie hears the three behind him close in and close in fast, feet on cracked pavement–

The chain loops around his neck.

The razor comes for his face.

His big hand catches Skinny Jack’s wrist before the blade can cut him.