by Mark Nolan
Zhukov repeated the toast, and they both tapped their cups on the table top and drank the shot of fire water. It burned going down and made them feel warm all over.
Banks said, “This powerful drink is an example of why this exclusive and expensive private establishment is poetically named the Eat and Drink Too Much, Live Fast, Die Young and Leave a Good Looking Corpse dinner club, or some such, roughly translated.”
“That name really rolls off the tongue,” Zhukov said.
“We are the only non-Chinese guests here tonight so we want to be polite and follow their traditions,” Banks said.
“You know me, I’m always the quiet and polite one,” Zhukov said.
Banks raised an eyebrow, shook his head and smiled. Zhukov smiled too. He enjoyed bantering with Banks, the man was well-read and world traveled, and had a good sense of humor, unlike so many of the other employers who hired him for his freelance services.
“I’m intrigued by the attractive people that work here,” Zhukov said. “What is the story about them?”
“These men and women come directly from China and are descendants of various people that worked at the royal palace of a famous Emperor from long ago,” Banks said. “The Emperor selected the best and brightest men and women to serve him, those with long ancestries of noble bloodlines leading back thousands of years. They say that some of these people look similar to famous historical figures seen in paintings and books. And that is because they are indeed direct descendants of those historical figures.”
A gong sounded, and the kitchen doors opened. Out came waiters and waitresses all dressed the same way in matching blue pants, white silk shirts, and blue silk brocade Mandarin jackets with gold buttons. They pushed chrome metal carts on wheels, the kind you’d see in a dim sum restaurant, but these carts each held a silver platter featuring a mountain of steamed white rice.
“Ah, here comes the first appetizer now,” Banks said. “The meal will begin and end with white rice, and we will eat all of our foods from a bowl of rice. However don’t ever eat all of the rice in your bowl, it is considered rude. They will refill it for you if it gets low. Also, at the end of the meal, they will serve a full bowl of rice. Don’t take a bite of that rice, leave it all in your bowl to show that you have had enough to eat, and you are very full and satisfied.”
Zhukov nodded his head and glanced around the restaurant, his interest piqued. As the appetizer cart approached, he said, “If I didn’t know better I’d say that mountain of rice almost looks like it has scorpions crawling all over it.”
“You have a good scientific eye for arthropods. Yes those are deep-fried scorpions, and they are very popular at Beijing's Donghuamen Night Market. You’ve got to try them.”
“No egg rolls, huh?”
“None, I’m afraid. We will start off with these flash fried scorpions and then enjoy all kinds of exotic meat and seafood dishes.”
A male waiter with a noble, handsome face parked a cart next to the table. There were a half dozen of the crispy creatures swarming lifelike on the tall mound of steamed white rice. The waiter gave each of the men an individual bowl of rice and then he used chopsticks to expertly pluck two scorpions off the mound of rice and place one on top of each of their bowls. Next, he set down a variety of small dishes filled with savory dipping sauces, and then left the guests to enjoy their food.
Banks picked up his rice bowl and held it near his mouth with one hand while he used the chopsticks in his other hand to pick up the scorpion. He bit off one of its front pincers and chewed it as he set the rest of the scorpion back in the bowl. He smiled and nodded at Zhukov as he ate, then smacked his lips and said, “It’s quite good; try it, you’ll like it.”
Chapter 51
Police Sergeant Cori Denton was sitting on her couch at home and having a drink of gin and tonic when she got a text message from a cop friend. The text showed a news story featuring a video of Jake Wolfe. He was at a multi-million dollar home on Mt. Tamalpais where another attorney had been murdered, this time with a crossbow arrow. There were videos and photos of Jake with a bikini-wearing blonde woman who was giving him a hug. The two of them had a yellow and black police do-not-cross crime scene tape in between their waists.
“There he is at the scene of the crime… again,” Denton said. “And he saves a near-naked damsel in distress. How convenient. This guy is looking more like a guilty suspect in these murders every time I see him.”
Denton sent a text message on her phone to her police partner Kirby. He didn’t reply, the lazy bum. It was in the evening hours during his time off, but so what? She drank down the rest of her gin and tonic in one long gulp and went to the kitchen to get another. But she just skipped the tonic and drank from the bottle. The straight gin burned down her throat and lit a fire in her belly. She took another drink and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand.
Her phone buzzed again, and she saw that it was a call from her mother.
“What do you want now mother, to borrow money again?”
“Well I could use your help to pay my electric bill if it’s not too much trouble,” her mother said.
“Every time I give you money, you spend it on booze and smokes.”
“Life has been hard for me, ever since your father left us.”
“Well, I hate him as much as you then, because if he’d stayed maybe he could have stopped you from hitting me. And I remember every time you hit me. Every. Single. Time.”
“I just wish I’d have taken my birth control pills that night you were conceived,” her mother said.
“Thanks, mom, love you too, have a heart attack, okay?” Denton said, and she ended the call.
On the kitchen counter was a sharp kitchen knife. She picked it up in her right hand and held it against her left bicep. There were scars on her skin from previous cutting sessions.
“I hate everyone,” Denton said, and she started to cut her arm. Blood dripped down to her elbow, and drops fell onto the countertop.
Denton saw her reflection in the kitchen window, and it looked like the image of someone else, someone she didn’t know. Who was she now, and what was she turning into? She blamed everyone but herself, and her eyes darkened as she thought of the people she hated, especially Jake Wolfe. She couldn’t stand the sight of his face.
“Damn them all,” Denton said.
She cut her arm again… and again.
Chapter 52
At the restaurant in Chinatown, Zhukov looked at the fried scorpion on top of his bowl of rice for a moment, then shrugged his shoulders and picked up his set of chopsticks. He was somewhat awkward handling the chopsticks, but he managed to get the scorpion near his mouth and bite off a pincer. He chomped on the crunchy item and then took a drink of tea.
“Well these are quite large, crunchy and salty, and surprisingly tasty,” Zhukov said. “They are like… dark meat lobster. If lobsters had dark meat.”
“They really are delicious,” Banks said. “Thank you for trying them, we need to at least taste a portion of every dish or we will cause great insult to our hosts. It would be unfortunate if the chefs were offended and they decided to poison us or use their cleaver knives on us.”
“These scorpions really do seem unusually large and dark, what kind are they, do you happen to know?”
“They are black Asian Forest Scorpions. Usually, they’re simply deep fried and salted, much like French fried potatoes. But these are special because the chef bought only the largest of the large scorpions, quickly flash fried them in very hot peanut oil infused with garlic, then dusted them with a seasoning of herbs and spices and served them with these rare and delectable dipping sauces.”
They both tucked in and started biting off scorpion arms, legs, heads, and tails, dipping the morsels into some of the sauces and making low growls of approval with each one they tasted.
“So why did you invite me to this dinner meeting?”
“Simply to make you an offer; I was wondering if when this job
is complete, you might consider working for me exclusively.”
“Work for you alone, not for your business group?”
“Yes, I have plenty of… jobs that would keep you busy and well paid; you’d make even more money than you are already.”
Zhukov thought that Banks must have a long list of enemies to be eliminated. He said, “I’ll give it some serious thought and get back to you.”
“Splendid, and perhaps after dinner we can enjoy a nightcap of brandy and cigars. I’d like to have a private meeting and discuss a few details of the current project. My associates have been asking some questions.”
Zhukov, the inscrutable Russian, said nothing and his face revealed nothing. He did not agree or disagree. For all that Banks knew, he might be pleased to talk about the plans or he might be preparing to slash Banks’ throat with a knife.
A waiter returned to clear their dishes, and then another waitress brought out two plates full of what appeared to be prawns.
“These are called drunken shrimp,” Banks said. “And you may notice that the wiggling sea creatures are still barely alive, writhing in agony.”
“And do we wait until they expire, or eat them while they are alive and suffering?”
“Oh alive and in pain, of course, the only challenge is picking them up with chopsticks while they are squirming around in their death throes. I imagine I can hear their quiet cries, so sad.” Banks deftly picked up a wriggling shrimp and popped it into his mouth, then chewed happily.
Zhukov looked at the shrimp on his plate for a moment and then made an effort to pick one up. It took a few tries, but he managed to get a grip on one and set it on his bowl of rice. He lifted the bowl to his face and scooped the wiggling shrimp into his mouth. Once he’d chewed and swallowed the squirming sea creature he said, “Somewhat disturbing and yet quite delicious.”
The dishes that followed included starfish fried in shark oil, duck’s foot webbing, fish air bladder, bird’s nest soup, goat lungs with red peppers, pickled snakes, seahorses on a stick, and dog brain soup. When the last dish was served, Zhukov said, “Dog brains? No, I don’t think so, that’s just wrong.”
A waiter removed the plates from the table, and another appeared with a platter of fruit.
Banks helped himself to some Mandarin orange sections and said, “When they serve fruit it is a signal that the dinner has come to a conclusion and it is almost time to leave.”
“That’s one way to solve the problem of guests who don’t have the sense to know when to leave a party. Will they bring us the check or is it all prearranged?”
“The thousands of dollars per person for this rare dinner must be prepaid in advance when the reservations are made.”
Zhukov raised his eyebrows and said, “That was quite an investment in cuisine. Thank you for inviting me to dine with you.”
“I enjoyed sharing the experience with someone who is open minded enough to try interesting foods.”
An astonishingly attractive cocktail waitress appeared wearing a beautifully embroidered Cheongsams-style, red and gold silk dress. She set down two small curved cups, then bowed politely and walked away.
“This after dinner drink is a 100-year aged Yanglin Feijiu liqueur that was invented by a famous herbalist doctor in China,” Banks said. “The recipe is a secret, but it is rumored to include chrysanthemum, dried orange peel, raisin tree fruit, cloves, and jujube. It gets its green color naturally during fermentation from bamboo leaves, fennel and pea leaves.”
Zhukov held up his cup of liquor and nodded.
“Gānbēi,” Banks said.
They banged their cups on the table and tossed back the exotic drink in one gulp. Both men tried to act casual, but this was a new experience. Their throats were burning and their heads were spinning from the rare concoction.
After a minute, the roaring in their ears faded and they were able to stand up and make their way out. The staff of handsome and beautiful servers all lined up and bowed deeply at the guests as they walked past and headed down the stairs to the round red door.
At the bottom of the stairs, the large and dangerous looking man stood next to the open door and didn’t say a word. However when Zhukov passed by the man, they both made eye contact for a second and each gave a slight nod, passing a message of mutual respect between deadly fighters.
Once outside, Banks and Zhukov saw dozens of men dressed in black Kung-Fu suits, standing in protective positions up and down the street to ensure the safety of the people who were leaving the restaurant. Banks’ limousine was parked at the curb with the driver standing next to it waiting.
As they approached the limo, Zhukov said to Banks, “I could use a well-trained driver like that at times.”
“In London there is a special school for these drivers, males and females from many nationalities, but mostly English former SAS military men,” Banks said. “I’ll give you the contact information if you’d like. But right now let’s enjoy some brandy and cigars, and the discussion of business in my private limousine.”
“No, I’m sorry, but I don’t wish to discuss my work at this time,” Zhukov said. “I appreciate the fine dining, and I will think about your generous offer of exclusive employment, but I will not reveal my secret plans to anyone, I never do.”
Banks looked thoughtfully at Zhukov and decided this was not a good time to push him. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed the assassin’s right hand poised as if it was ready to draw a weapon. Banks’ efforts to wine and dine The Artist had failed, so be it. There was no sense in getting a professional assassin upset with him.
“I understand, and I’ll explain that to the Council,” Banks said.
Zhukov stared into Banks’ eyes, measuring the man’s words. He felt that Banks was lying, but he said, “I’m glad you grasp the importance of secrecy in my work, and you’re not making the mistake of pressing me for answers.”
“No worries, I wouldn’t do that to you, my friend,” Banks said. “Now my driver will take you wherever you wish to go. Good evening and I’ll look forward to talking to you soon.”
Banks made a motion with his hand and the driver of a similar limousine parked nearby got out of the car and held the back door open for him. Banks walked over to the limo and got inside. The driver then closed the door and got into the front seat and drove away.
Zhukov looked around at the windows above him. There could be a shooter in any one of them. He was glad to be wearing the latest high-tech bulletproof vest under his shirt. He looked at the limo driver and raised his eyebrows. The man nodded his head in understanding and lowered all of the windows and popped the trunk.
Once Zhukov had completed his inspection of the vehicle, they began driving on their roundabout journey through the city, with Zhukov’s pistol barrel pressed against the back of the driver’s neck.
Chapter 53
After midnight, inside the building nicknamed the Heroin Hotel, Terrell Hayes was doing his best to act like he was a gangster. He drank from a forty ounce bottle of malt liquor, smoked plenty of cannabis and gambled with dice, along with the rest of the fine folks there. But he didn’t do any hard drugs, so nobody trusted this new guy for a minute.
Terrell could tell that the real players were all acting somewhat reserved around him. In their minds, he was still an unknown stranger who had not proven himself. One of the many problems that came up was when someone said, “Here, do a line of coke.” And Terrell said, “How do I know it’s really coke?”
That was the wrong thing to say, but what if it was heroin or meth, or spiked with roofies? Terrell wasn’t going to snort some mystery powder up his nose and fry his brain over one undercover assignment. After that, he’d tried in vain to listen and pick up clues in what the gang bangers were talking about, but so far he’d wasted his time.
This angered him because he could be home asleep in his own bed, curled up to Alicia. He knew she was unhappy about it too. She had shared her honest feelings about his job many times dur
ing their recent heated conversations. Alicia would say that yes, somebody had to do this difficult and noble job, but why did it have to be Terrell? She had a valid point, but there was something about working in law enforcement that had a strong draw for a particular kind of person. Terrell couldn’t explain it, but he knew it when he saw it.
People who worked in law enforcement and first responder positions in public service were the ones who could not turn away when they saw something bad happening. They were the type of men and women who had run toward the twin towers in New York while everyone else had run away toward safety. What kind of people do that? His kind of people, men and women like him, that’s who.
Terrell was just not able to put his head in the sand like an ostrich and pretend there were not bad people out there doing terrible things, people who needed their asses kicked hard. That was what had caused him to join the military, and it was also what made him want to be a police officer. But working for law enforcement was often a stressful, difficult and thankless job. No wonder the divorce rate and alcoholism rate were so high for cops compared to so many other professions.
Terrell’s head was hurting right now. He decided to go outside to have a cigarette and reply to the text from Jake that he’d received earlier. Jukebox was probably asleep, but they both texted each other at all hours of the day or night, so it didn’t really matter what time it was.
Jake was sleeping in bed next to Kelli on the Far Niente when his phone made a unique series of vibrations that only occurred when Terrell was texting him. Jake sat up in bed and looked at the text. The sender’s name from his list of contacts said “Grinds.”
Thanks for the K9 tip. Chief liked it. Ryan and Hank will help the MVPD search. Meanwhile, I’m on undercover duty in the tenderloin, drinking a 40-oz.
Jake smiled at the text; he could answer it now or anytime later, Terrell wouldn’t care. As Jake looked at his phone, Kelli got up and went into the head. Jake sent a text to Terrell.
