Young and stupid? Was he in a gang? Nah, couldn’t be. Suddenly Mr. Fu and I found ourselves staring at each other, neither of us willing to look away. He probably wondered who I was to question him. And I wondered. Who is this man?
“Were you in a gang?” I finally asked. It was clear that the question made Mr. Fu nervous. He shuffled back and forth on his feet.
Mr. Fu turned to me with a face devoid of all emotion, “My past not good. I do many wrong things…for survival. The Wo Shing Wo give me what I need.”
I had never heard of the Wo Shing Wo. The only Chinese gang I had ever heard of was the Triads, and I always thought they were a myth, a trumped-up story about petty thieves.
“Who are the Wo Shing Wo?” I asked.
“Triads. Big gang in Hong Kong.”
“The Triads? For real?”
Mr. Fu perked up after hearing my disbelief. “Triads around for long time. Here in Chinatown, too.”
“Really? Do you know them? I mean, are you part of them?”
“No. End long time ago back in Hong Kong. No more,” Mr. Fu said.
I was so blown away by Mr. Fu’s revelation, I completely forgot about the task at hand: saving my job. I wanted to know more about Mr. Fu’s mysterious past. Maybe it would spark ideas, I foolishly thought. Regardless, this was procrastination at its finest. Who could argue with this?
An old homeless person pushed open the door to the restaurant and peeked into the kitchen. He had on an Oakland A’s baseball hat. His hair was black and matted, and hugged the sides of his leathery cheeks. I was unable to decipher the rest of his outfit.
A little back and forth took place in Chinese before Mr. Fu scooped the leftover chop suey into a take out box and handed it over to him. The old man snatched the container away and began shoveling the stir-fry into his mouth with his blackened fingers. He nodded his head as he walked away. I had to admit, underneath the shouting and the stain-covered apron, Mr. Fu was a nice guy.
“Tomorrow night, around six––you come here,” he motioned to me with his finger as he chewed on a toothpick.
I thanked Mr. Fu and walked out wondering what was in store for me next.
Chapter 11
Later that evening, Mr. Fu swept up the last of the kitchen droppings, mostly raw veggie appendages, ignoring the small area toward the back of the kitchen. This was where two half-inch-thick metal doors protruded from the floor. A padlock the size of an iron fist kept them sealed. The doors led to a storage basement below the restaurant, or so he was told when he first took over the property. Unnecessary, Mr. Fu thought, and covered them with flattened cardboard boxes.
Taking a seat on one of the soy sauce buckets, Mr. Fu relaxed for a good half hour while sipping green tea. It had been a long day, busier than most. He thought about Darby’s interest in his tattoo. Since his arrival in the States, not once had he spoken of his past and his gang affiliation to anyone. In fact he worked hard to purge it all from his memory.
“I see you like telling stories,” The Voice said.
Mr. Fu quickly shook himself out of his dreamy state. “Huh? What you doing here?”
“You were talking about the past.”
Mr. Fu cleared his throat and discarded the badly chewed up toothpick. “No, I don’t tell. Only show him tattoo.”
“You don’t plan on telling him more tomorrow night?”
“No, it’s not good. Not safe,” Mr. Fu lied.
The Voice remained silent. It had seen Darby enter the kitchen earlier and take a seat by Mr. Fu. It watched for the entire evening. The Voice had hope.
“I think you like talking. I think you’re tired of keeping secrets,” The Voice said before leaving.
Mr. Fu sat alone in the kitchen, thinking about what The Voice said. Was it true? Was he letting go? Twenty-five years ago he swore he would tell no one. And now…
Mr. Fu struggled with what to do. He knew The Voice spoke some truth. And it was liberating to talk about it with Darby.
It was nearly one in the morning when Mr. Fu finally stepped outside. The fog was thick and blanketed the entire city. Sometimes visibility was a mere ten feet. Tonight was one of those sometimes.
Mr. Fu stepped outside and locked the single glass door behind him. The security alarm sticker above the handle was just that: a sticker. The jiggly deadbolt was the restaurant’s only overnight enforcer.
Mr. Fu took a deep breath. He loved breathing in the crisp air. It always gave him a tiny burst of energy. He released the billowing breath and headed home.
Meanwhile, The Voice ventured out into the night, roaming, watching. It felt free and alive. For so long The Voice had denied itself this freedom. But tonight signaled a change. No longer did The Voice feel like it had to listen to Mr. Fu. They kept their secrets from others for so long. It was time to stop. The Voice already decided it had enough. It could not return to the older ways. It didn’t want to.
It seemed like hours––it probably was––that The Voice spent roaming Chinatown. The alleyways quickly became the favorite. They were perfect for moving around without being seen. The Voice was able to move the entire length of Chinatown via the skinny walkways, invisible.
“Here, kitty, kitty,” The Voice said.
A grey, short-haired cat jumped down from a dumpster and made its way over, hoping for a snack.
In one quick downward swoop, the blade severed the head clean off the body. The tabby stood for a split second before crumpling into a motionless mass of warm fur.
The Voice paused, smiled, and then walked away, whistling.
Chapter 12
“It chops, it shreds, it slices–– It even juliennes!” the pitchman on the television shouted at me. “You can’t find another product that can do so much while taking up so little space.”
Damn it, he was right. When I called in my order for “Mom’s Little Helper” three weeks ago, I didn’t think it would live up to the name. When it arrived, I was blown away. It was a lot smaller then what it looked like on television. The whole not-taking-up-a-lot-of-room pitch was true.
Anticipating its arrival, I had already bought the necessary ingredients needed to conduct my own testing. Nuts, cabbage, broccoli, onions, a cheese block, and pickles––this little bad boy karate-chopped them all in no time.
I was able to fill up three “One Press” plastic containers––another fine purchase, I might add––in five minutes. Then I tossed the containers into the fridge where they would stay until the food rotted.
I looked forward to late night. Sitcoms and news reports gave way to a cornucopia of products touted by shouting men and cooing women. But tonight I had other important things to tend to.
I picked up the Teleco manual and flipped through it. Again and again, I peeled the pages back. Fppppptttt, the pages said as I released them. Everything in this manual is here for one reason, I thought, to improve our clients’ businesses. Better productivity, more efficiency, cost savings––even morale boosters. “A Teleco cell phone can improve morale,” Gerald wrote.
As much as I tried to concentrate on Teleco business, my chat with Mr. Fu and his past continued to fill my thoughts. When I finally shook Mr. Fu out of my head, the scene with Paulie from Goodfellas showed up.
I couldn’t help but laugh at the absurdity of the situation. My line of work revolved around communication, yet I had become curious about the past of a man who was of little words and my favorite scene from Goodfellas was watching wise guys relay messages for Paulie.
I continued to peruse the manual. “Teleco’s wireless business solutions help organizations improve their communication thus increasing their efficiency, making them productive and successful.” Yawn.
I tried to ignore the headache that began to beat against the back of my head, thumping along like bongo drums, but it was a lost cause. I started losing focus. One by one, my thoughts collided, eventually becoming a mishmash of the day’s sound bytes.
My mind rambled on.
W
e help organizations...chop suey… An efficient business with Teleco…wise guy…tell me, Mr. Fu…increase your organization’s bottom line…the feds have a wire going…long time ago, Hong Kong. Where to start…? Gang…get organized…wireless calling plans…
And then it clicked.
Chapter 13
This had to be word association at its finest. Out of my cranium mash-up, clarity appeared. Like a jigsaw puzzle, the solution to my problem locked itself into shape, piece by piece. I watched gloriously as it all came together.
Could this be? Was it? A large smile split my face in half. Hair erections stood proudly on both arms. I knew this feeling all too well. That moment of time right before a Darbytastic idea vomits out of my mouth.
If wireless business solutions can help organizations like Apple, IBM, and McDonald’s become successful, why couldn’t it help organizations like the Mafia, the Yakuza, or the Triads?
It was fantastic––the mother of all ideas. I had discovered the elusive untapped market. Top that, Henry Morton Stanley!
Making organized crime more organized was a wonderful idea. It was right in front of me the entire time. The simplest ideas always are though. I hopped around my apartment like a seven-year-old jacked up on Halloween candy.
No other telecommunications company had even thought to pitch these organizations. They went after the IBMs, Teleco included. Surely these corporate gangs, these dark conglomerates, could benefit from improved communication, increased production, cost-saving efficiency––all of which Teleco’s clients were currently experiencing.
The idea was brilliant. It was Darbytastic squared. I would increase the underworld’s bottom line with my special arsenal of weapons: wireless business solutions, mobile phones, broadband cards, IP convergence––all kinds of cool shit.
And more importantly, this newfound business would assure me the return of my heavyhitter status. Harold would have to suck it up and find some other peon to entertain himself with.
I was psyched to get the idea off the ground. The adrenaline raced through my body like hot espresso, forcing me to dole out double fist pumps.
What next?
Do I tell anyone?
I have to tell Tav.
Is this really possible?
Who am I kidding?
I can’t do this.
Yes you can…I think.
Shut up, Darby!
No, wait. It’s the best idea you’ve had ever.
For real?
Yes, for real.
Breathe, Darby. Breathe.
It was close to two in the morning but I called Tav anyway. I couldn’t wait to tell him but it had to be done in the right way. When he was at his weakest moment.
“Hello?” Tav managed still groggy from sleep.
“Tav, it’s Darby.”
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. Everything’s fine. Listen, I gotta tell you something, but in person.”
“Fine. Then why are you calling me so late?”
“I’m sorry, but it’s important. Can we head out for lunch tomorrow?”
“Why can’t you tell me now? We’re talking.”
“Golden Flower. My treat. Eleven.”
“Oooh, the Flower. I loves me some Flower. I’ll see you then. Bring enough money. I plan on feasting.”
I will, and why don’t you plan on being blown away.
Chapter 14
By the time I poured my second cup of coffee the next morning, I’d already decided the Triads would be my best shot for success, mostly because of my proximity to Chinatown and what Mr. Fu mentioned the other night. All I needed was to find a Triad and ask to see their head buyer.
Yeah, as if. I wasn’t that stupid. I knew they didn’t have buyers. However, they did require normal, everyday services from dentists, doctors, plumbers and so forth. Somehow, someway, good and bad did business together, over and over. It was simple as convenience store selling a tube of toothpaste to a serial killer. It probably happened all the time.
The Triads were only the beginning though. My thinking told me that if I convinced one gang, I could convince others. Getting a foot in the door would be the tough part but once I gained entrance, I should be free to roam around, especially if I had a kickass case study.
A solid case study would say more than I ever could. It would vouch for me and show future prospects how I can deliver hard results. But in order to pull off the perfect case study, I needed the perfect gang.
In my mind, this gang was incredibly mismanaged, extremely pathetic and teetered on the verge of collapse. I would be the secret weapon that single handedly brings them back from the verge of gangkruptcy. That’s right. A gang that goes out of business is called gangkruptcy. You heard it here first.
I quickly scanned my collection of DVDs for movies about the underworld. Scarface…Casino…no, none of these would do. I needed to understand how the Triads operated, what their secret rules were. If I were going to be serious about this, I needed a firsthand understanding of how they operated. I needed to get over to Chinatown.
Chop, chop.
Chapter 15
Kowloon Peninsula, Hong Kong
Far across the Pacific Ocean, the ravenous staff at the House of Chow restaurant gathered around the table, ready to devourer their communal dinner. Nine white ceramic bowls with a blue character trim filled with sticky rice were sitting on the round table.
The cook and a waiter emerged from the kitchen with two platters, one stacked high with steamed chicken, the other with a colorful mix of wok-fried veggies. They placed the plates down on the table and took their seats.
Within seconds, a barrage of lemon-yellow, plastic chopsticks darted back and forth through the air, each finding their targets with deadly accuracy. The staff palmed their bowls in one hand while they made short work of deboning the chicken with their teeth and shoveled gobs of white rice into their mouth. The sharp up and down bell tones of the Cantonese language rang out amid the chewing and swallowing.
The dining room was all but empty except for a table in the rear corner. Sitting tightlipped were three men. With only a few of the restaurant’s chandeliers remaining on, one could easily have missed them.
Two were smartly dressed in black suits with skinny red ties. The third barely fit his suit. It stretched to contain his plump physique. On the table in front of them sat a pot of hot jasmine tea and an opened bottle of Johnnie Walker Red.
The man sitting in the middle looked across the empty dining room. Lost in thought, he methodically tugged and twisted the wispy hair hanging off his chin. Smoke from his cigarillo billowed up from a butt-filled ashtray. Three drags and then a sip of tea, never different. He was in his own world, unaware of the other two counting money while drinking bottomless shots of whiskey.
His face was home to a crisscross of scars. They were tiny and only noticeable at a close distance. Reaching into his jacket he slowly removed a black fan with a handle interlaced with intricate mother of pearl carvings. With a flick of his wrist, the fan spilled open with a crack. Bits of light reflected off the tips of the fan where the spine housed tiny razor blades.
The man opened his mouth and let out a lazy yawn as he waved the fan back and forth.
“Aaaahhhh,” he cried out. A red trickle ran down the side of his face.
The other two men stopped what they were doing and turned their attention to their injured boss. The fat one picked up a napkin and dipped the corner into a cup of tea before gently dabbing at the wound.
“Aaaahhhh,” the boss yelled again. “It’s hot.”
“So sorry, so sorry,” the fat one repeated as he bowed his head.
The other one fared no better as he took the fan from the boss’s hand and tucked it, blade down, into the front pocket of his boss’s suit.
“Aaaahhh!” He knocked his minions hand away. “You idiot, leave me alone––both of you.”
Both men were apologizing profusely and bowing their heads. Across the res
taurant the wait staff poorly contained their laughter.
Much like the crime syndicates in other countries, the Chinese had their own version of organized crime known as the Triads, which was broken down into various factions. The Fan gang was one of those factions. And the Fan Gang was not your typical Triad gang.
A few seconds later, the doors to the kitchen swung open and an old man entered the dining room. He was dressed in a stained, white apron with a white t-shirt that would never lose the smell of grease. He shook his head at the three in his usual disappointment.
“Clean up,” he shouted as he pointed to a group of tables still littered with dirty dishes. He disappeared in the kitchen for a second and then returned holding a couple of aprons and threw them onto their table.
The fat one tried to stand up but his belly caught the table, lifting it and spilling the open bottle of whiskey onto the carpeting. Frustrated, the old man threw his arms into the air and returned to the kitchen.
Chapter 16
The man with the scarred face was Sing Chow, leader of the Fan Gang. The elderly man was his father, Fa Chow, the owner of the restaurant. This restaurant was the only thing the two had in common. They rarely said a word to each other and when they did speak, it was usually short and restaurant related. It wasn’t always like this though. There were happier times, but that all ended when breast cancer took Sing’s mother away from him a little over fifteen years ago.
Complicating matters more was Sing’s position within the family. Being an only child, he was expected to take over and let his father ease into retirement. Sing of course had no interest in his father’s plans. The only interest he had in the restaurant was its use as the headquarters for the Fan Gang. The Triad life was what he wanted.
Sing was the smallest at the table, no taller than five-foot-six. He was thin, had shoulder-length black hair to match his chin beard, and always wore a black suit with a white shirt and a solid red tie: the official dress code for the gang.
Darby Stansfield Thriller Series (Books 1-3 & Bonus Novella) Page 4
