Darby Stansfield Thrillers (1-3)

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 said 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 as simple as a 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 would need the perfect gang.

In my mind, this gang was incredibly mismanaged, extremely pathetic, and teetering on the verge of collapse. I would be the secret weapon that singlehandedly brought them back from the verge of gangkruptcy. That’s right. When a gang goes out of business, it’s called gangkruptcy. You heard it here first. 

***

Far across the Pacific Ocean, the ravenous staff at the House of Chow restaurant gathered around the table, ready to devour 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 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 with the other hand. 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 there were three tight-lipped 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 open 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 as the tips of the fan nicked his face. 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 minion’s hand away. “You idiot, leave me alone––both of you.”

Both men were apologizing profusely and bowing their heads. Across the restaurant the wait staff could not contain their laughter.