He insisted the gang dress this way, even though most of the members couldn’t afford the get-up. Sing got the idea from his favorite Stephen Chow movie, Kung Fu Hustle. In his eyes it conveyed a presence. He wanted everyone in his district to know who was in charge, even though they had very little control of the area.
Sing looked at his two bumbling sidekicks and let out a long sigh. “What’s the count?”
“HK$2,045,” the larger of the two replied.
“That’s it?”
The fatter one, known only as Chu, shrugged his shoulders sheepishly. “Bad day, boss.”
Sing was dejected. It was an everyday battle to keep the gang going, if you could even call it a gang. It was a love-hate relationship for Sing. He badly wanted the Fan Gang to succeed but deep down inside he was angry that it wasn’t anywhere close to success.
As far as Sing was concerned, the only members the gang was capable of recruiting were the bottom-of-the-barrel types: the rejects, the leftovers after the other gangs did their recruiting. Most of the talent chased after the money and fame the Wo Shing Wo faction offered. Everyone wanted to be a part of the Wo Shing Wo––even Sing at one point.
Chu handed Sing the money. “What are we doing with the money, boss?”
The day’s take came from a scam they pulled earlier selling tickets for boat rides in the harbor. The catch? There was no boat. It was getting harder to execute, though. Word about the scam spread quickly on the travel message boards.
“I’ll keep it with the rest,” Sing said.
Chu looked at Sing for a bit. This scenario had become all too familiar. They make money, hand it over to Sing, and never hear about it again.
Lee Tai, the other sidekick, never gave it much thought. He believed Sing was a smart person and had a plan for them. So long as he could eat for free at the restaurant, he had no real complaints.
Chu cleared the dirty dishes from the other table. He always made it a point to help Mr. Chow with the restaurant. Sing’s father always liked Chu, who was the son of his cousin So Ling. Her husband disappeared when Chu was only two. Not having anyone to turn to, So Ling asked Fa Chow for help. Sing and Chu practically grew up as brothers.
Lee followed Chu into the kitchen to help wash the dishes. He could tell Chu was irritated.
“Let it go, Chu. Nothing you can do about it.”
“That’s why I worry. How do we know he’s not keeping the money for himself?”
“What’s the big deal? Things are fine. The gang prospers.”
“Prospers? Lee you have much to learn. We are losing recruits. Business is slow. The other factions laugh at us.”
“Laugh is a strong word.”
“It’s the right word. Are you not sick of scraping the bottom? Sing told us the gang would rise up. We would smell success. None of it has happened.”
“Sing is our leader Chu. We must trust him. The gang’s interest is top of mind for him.”
And that’s exactly what bothered Chu. Were these interests for the gang or for Sing’s own agenda?
A scream interrupted their conversation. Chu and Lee stopped what they were doing and ran into the dining room. Stumbling forward near the entrance was one of their Fan Gang brothers, Wo Liang.
He was dressed in typical gang attire minus the jacket. He held his stomach tightly with one hand as he steadied himself on a chair. Blood seeped through his fingers, soaking his white dress shirt. Sing was already out of his seat.
Wo was one of their better recruits––easily the most promising. A stand out, really. He always found a way to make money on the black market with pirated goods. To see him badly injured was a huge blow.
Sing helped the injured Wo over to a chair. “What happened?”
“Four men. It happened fast. They got the others.”
“What others? Who got them?”
“Zhi Peng and Xu Guan––they’re dead.”
Wo coughed and blood spilled out of his mouth.
“Who did this? Tell me.”
Wo Liang shook his head and tried to mouth the words. He was weak; the life rushed out of him.
“Call the ambulance,” Chu shouted to the staff.
“No,” Sing said. “No ambulance. We can’t risk the police getting involved.”
Chu grabbed Sing’s arm. “But he’s dying.”
A muffled cry escaped from the table where the restaurant staff had gathered. Sing’s father wrapped a towel tightly around Wo’s abdomen to curb the bleeding. Sing and Chu eased their injured brother back into the chair. His breathing grew shallower.
And then it stopped.
Chapter 17
San Francisco, California
With the fog absent, San Francisco was out in full force taking advantage of the warm weather while I took advantage of my sick leave.
The bus ride into Chinatown was quick and without incident––the way I liked it. With a small pad and pen tucked away in my back pocket, I exited the No. 1 bus at Stockton Avenue and Clay Street and hobbled East toward Grant.
Ninety percent of the hustle and muscle of Chinatown came from an army of four-foot, nine-inch, cane-wielding, Mandarin-speaking seniors. The speed of the average senior depends on the movement of their cane. If their cane moved slowly, then they moved slowly. If it had a little kick, then so did they. They were in Chinatown to do their shopping, see their doctors, get their hair done, and take care of any other business that sixty-year-old Chinese seniors required.
I canvassed the sea of salt-and-pepper heads, looking for suspicious activity. I even made it a point to peek into every alleyway and store, especially the herbal ones that sold large bottles of ginseng root floating in clear liquid. It looked like some sort of scientific breeding experiment.
Out of habit, I made my way to a tiny, hole-in-the-wall bakery and purchased my favorite Chinese snack––sticky rice cake. I preferred the layered ones; they’re fun to peel and eat.
Munching on my cake, I watched the crowd of locals and tourists wander up and down Grant Street. Red, yellow, and white signs and red paper lanterns crisscrossed back and forth between buildings, dominating the landscape.
Most of the shops in Chinatown sold goods ranging from presidential bobble heads to expensive teak antique furniture from the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries. Restaurants, beauty parlors, tea stores, and herbal medicine shops occupied the rest of the space.
“Darby,” I heard a voice yell out. I turned around and saw Tav sidestepping his way through a crowd of Chinese munchkins.
“Hey, how’s the leg?” Tav asked as he patted me on the back.
“It’s holding up. I think I’ll be out of it sooner.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah, the pain is gone. Plus, I can’t keep on like this.”
“Always doing it your way, huh Darb? Things never change.”
“Nope, they don’t.”
“So what’s the important info you couldn’t spill over the phone?”
“Not now. Let’s wait until we get inside. I’ll tell you everything then.”
Chapter 18
Kowloon Peninsula, Hong Kong
Within minutes, Lee Tai had fetched his uncle’s delivery van so that Sing and Chu could get Wo’s body out of the restaurant and over to an old seafood processing plant. It was no longer in use, but the refrigeration rooms were still operable. They could keep the body here for a few days until arrangements could be made for a cremation.
It was important they kept Wo’s death quiet. Sing already warned the restaurant workers to keep silent before leaving with the body.
“Boss, what’s the plan?” Chu asked on their way back to the restaurant.
This question had become all too familiar to Sing as of late. This was the fourth unprovoked attack on the gang this month. The troubling part for Sing was he had no answer. When word of this latest attack gets back to the remaining brothers, there will be anger and questions to deal with. He wasn’t sure how much longer he could hold them of
f with his tight-lipped responses.
“Same as usual,” Sing said softly.
He really had no plan. They were a laughable gang. At their height, they amassed close to fifty members. Now with their most recent loss, their total count was down to eighteen, though not all of those losses were due to attacks, some of the brothers lost interest, got arrested, or were too stupid and of no use.
Yet even with the gang’s inefficiencies, someone out there felt the need to target them. These knife-wielding ghosts had snuffed a total of six brothers. Every encounter was the same: victims sliced and diced by a meat cleaver. It was definitely in the style favored by Triads, but so far none of the factions laid claim. The killings didn’t appear to be random either. The smarter members were targeted––that much was apparent to everyone in the gang.
One killing especially bothered Chu. A brother was killed by a very old method: Ling Chi, or death by one thousand cuts.
This was an execution method used in China until its abolishment in 1905. The executioner would remove small portions of a person with a knife over a period of time. Keeping the victim alive as long as possible was the goal. The executioner had to be vicious and devoid of all emotions to carry out such an act.
Chu first heard of Ling Chi when he was a child. Someone used this gruesome method to murder a number of people in his neighborhood. The killer was never found and Chu never forgot about the grisly deaths.
“We must not show fear. We must remain strong and united. We must send a message to the enemy that they will not break us,” Sing said.
“What about the brothers? What will we tell them? They will seek answers. There is fear in the ranks.”
“Tell them nothing,” Sing shot back. “If they fear for their life, let them run home to their mothers. The Fan Gang has no use for them.”
“We have to do something. We must find these cowards who attack in the dark so we can strike back. Staying quiet has gotten us nowhere.”
“And how do you intend to strike back? We have no idea who our enemy is.”
“We must arm ourselves better––be prepared for attacks.”
“Weapons cost money.”
“We have money: the money we give you.”
Sing struck the dashboard with the open palm of his hand. The loud crack silenced Chu. Lee kept his eyes on the road and concentrated on driving.
Sing’s head trembled slightly before he gained control of his emotions. Then, in a calm and controlled manner he turned to Chu. “I do not have to explain my actions. I am the boss of this gang, am I not?” he said with a humorless chuckle.
Chu stared at the floor of the van, stealing a quick look at Sing in the front passenger seat from his seat on a crate in the back.
“But if you must know, I will repeat what I’ve already told you. I have plans that will better benefit the gang than a few weapons will.”
You’re not the only one who can plan, Chu thought.
Chapter 19
San Francisco, California
When we got to the Golden Flower, Tav moved ahead quickly and opened the door for me. I thought for a second I could get used to the star treatment, but navigating the crowded restaurant with crutches convinced me otherwise.
Backpacks, purses, and shopping bags littered the floor around the maze of tables. There was no place for personal items in the Golden Flower. The owners had figured out a floor plan that maximized the seating area, leaving customers a squeezable amount of room.
Tav maneuvered around another way and got ahead of me to an open table. He pulled my chair out and I tried to slide in slowly, but ended up slipping and falling into the chair. My encased foot kicked the leg of the table next to us.
“Sorry,” I said to the two women sitting there.
“I see you’re not used to the foot yet,” Tav said.
“What makes you say that?”
“Wait until it starts to itch. You’ll need to stick a wire hanger down inside to get at the good spots.”
“I don’t want to think about it,” I said as I poured us both a cup of tea. I overshot the cup like I normally did, and tea flooded the table. There went the first round of napkins.
As I relaxed from the momentous effort of sitting, the familiar smell of pho filled my nostrils. Tav loved Vietnamese food. I didn’t mind it. I always ordered the same dish off the menu: No. 7, Teng Tav Bo. Beef balls with brisket. It was pretty good.
“So what’s all this secret talk about?”
I flip-flopped endlessly all morning on whether to tell Tav. It probably would have been better to talk about this over beers but I didn’t want to wait. I still had no clue about how he would react. But really, how twisted could this idea be? Seriously?
“I have a plan that will save my job at Teleco and turn me into a heavy hitter,” I said with a calm authority.
“That’s great Darb. I knew you would buckle down and hit the phones.”
“This doesn’t involve making phone calls.”
“Huh? Please don’t tell me this is another one of your ‘Darbytastic’ ideas.”
I took a deep breath and got right into it.
“It involves doing business with crime organizations. They are a huge market that has been virtually overlooked by wireless companies like Teleco. Totally untapped. And guess what? They have the same needs our current clients do.”
Tav kept quiet as I continued my pitch, but his open mouth said everything. I talked about the Triads and Mr. Fu’s help and how a case study would be the perfect take away to pitch other gangs. I let it all flow out.
The waiter placed two huge steaming bowls of pho, an order of pot stickers, and some hot and salty chicken wings on the table. I quickly picked up my chopsticks and dug in. Slurping and chewing, I continued. By the time I was finished, it seemed like a half hour had passed without Tav’s saying anything.
“Well don’t just sit there,” I said. “Say something…like, ‘Great idea, Darb. You’re awesome. Boy, this pho is delicious.’”
Tav’s mouth finally functioned. “Did you say you want to do business with criminals?”
Stabbing a beef ball with my chopstick, I dipped it into a ramekin full of Sriracha and popped it into my mouth.
“Well, not the entire underworld––just the Triads, really. Well that’s who I’m gonna go after first. A small gang, one who could really use the help and make a great case study so I can approach bigger organizations and eventually branch out into other areas like the Italian Mafia, the Yakuza, even the Russian Vory. You know what I mean? But I gotta start some––”
Tav waved both his hands out in front of me, “Stop, stop. You mean to tell me you’re actually considering this?”
My excitement dropped a bit.
“Well, yeah…but I’m starting small.”
I knew Tav would freak out but this was a bit more than I expected.
“Are you crazy?” he said.
I leaned in quickly. “Ssshh! This isn’t something I want to broadcast, you know? You gotta keep it low.”
I could tell by their nosey looks, the two ladies next to us were picking up bits of the conversation. The one with eighties Texas hair was straining so hard to hear, I was surprised she didn’t fall out of her chair.
As awkward as it looked, Tav and I huddled closer, which was difficult to do since we were both eating soup.
“Are you nuts?” Tav whisper-shouted.
“Are you saying I should give up and wave buh-bye to my job?”
“Job? This isn’t about saving your job. This is about getting back to heavy-hitter land to prove to everyone, yourself and Harold, that you aren’t a fluke.”
I couldn’t deny what Tav said was true. I wanted back into the club and I wanted to rub it in Harold’s face.
“What’s wrong with that? I want more than a job.”
“Man, I thought the potato sack idea was whack, but this totally crushes that.”
Tav twirled a big mound of white noodles around his chopst
ick and shoved the mess into his mouth.
“Look, Tav, I know this is a little shocking to hear––”
“Shawing? Is fuffed op,” he muttered, mouth full.
“––but for the first time, I’ve given it a lot of thought. I really have. And the best part is, I believe it can work. I mean really work.”
I told him about Mr. Fu’s tattoo and possible Triad connection, the company handbook, and even how watching Goodfellas helped to influence the birth of the idea.
“I need time to take this in. It’s a lot, Darb.”
“Yeah, sure. I understand. We can talk about it later.”
Tav brought his bowl up to his mouth and let the basil-enhanced broth drain into his mouth.
“Look, you’re my best friend. I need to know you believe me when I say everything will be fine––and even more importantly, that you got my back like you always do.”
Tav placed the bowl down and wiped his mouth. “Well, I gotta say you certainly have outdone every idea you have ever pitched to me since we were seven.” Tav stood up. “It’s late. I gotta get back for a staff meeting. We’ll catch up later.”
I left thirty bucks on the table and the two of us made our way out of the Golden Flower. Even though it didn’t look like it, I knew Tav would come around. I also knew he would get involved.
He always did.
Chapter 20
Tav and I parted at the corner and I headed west on Jackson Street. What exactly did a Triad look like? I had no idea. I was sure Mr. Fu wasn’t the ideal model. So I popped into a video store selling Chinese movies. Surely there were movies about gang life in China.
Near the entrance, a group of elderly, Chinese men were watching the latest hi-ya on a flat-screen TV. I stopped for a bit. The flick wasn’t too bad. I gathered it was some sort of modern day police drama where cops preferred to use their kung fu skills rather than the Glock tucked away in their holster. I moved around the matinee crowd and made my way inside.
There were rows of movie sleeves to pick through. The latest offerings were displayed behind a large glass counter. A thin Chinese woman yakking it up on her cell phone seemed to be the gatekeeper. It was a good thing I didn’t have any questions because I would have hated to interrupt her.
Darby Stansfield Thriller Series (Books 1-3 & Bonus Novella) Page 5
