CHOP SUEY

TY HUTCHINSON

Chapter 1

San Francisco, California Life at Teleco was much like life at any other massive corporate blob. Two thousand people entered the revolving doors every morning between 8:45 and 9:30. They shuffled through like drones, two at a time, each of them sporting a Starbucks cup in their right hand and a Timbuk2 bag slung over their shoulder. Of the two thousand people employed there, roughly three percent were what the company referred to as their heavy-hitters. They were the earners, the ones who hauled in the cashola by the truckload. Every single one of those moneymaking machines worked in sales, and they made Teleco gazillions of dollars by selling wireless business solutions to Fortune 500 corporations. Those so-called rock stars were privy to a life recognized with yearly monetary bonuses, gold-framed plaques reaffirming their position, and a whole lot of atta boys from senior management. Mitch and Murray from downtown would pay a lot for those closers. If you work in sales, you can become a heavy-hitter, I was told. Nothing could have been farther from the truth. I, like most of the sales department, fed at the bottom of this spectrum. Our livelihoods at the company were not pedestal-worthy. Yearly recognitions would never be lavished upon us, nor would we be worshipped as closing gods. Invisible was what we were.

As usual, I exited the elevator on the sixth floor and took a moment to survey the wasteland of sectional cubes. My fellow sales associates were already four to five calls in on potential gold mines. They still had hope. Every five seconds or so a frenzied head would pop up from a cubicle. Whack! Whack! Whac-A-Mole! Back to work, you cogs. Only closers get coffee, remember? We were told wireless business solutions could improve the bottom line of any company. Even a company with four employees needed phones that chirped. I took a seat in my cozy cubi-cell and turned on my PC. Turnover in my department was ridiculous. The average bottom feeder lasted six months, tops. I had been there for almost two worthless years. Yo, Darby! What up, fool? I looked up and saw Tav walking down the hallway toward me with a swagger that would do George Jefferson proud. Tavish Woo-Kaminsky was my co-cubicle buddy at work. Weve also been inseparable since the age of seven. Tav was half Caucasian, half Asian. You could tell from his eyes. Both were slanted but the left eye had a Caucasian eyelid while the right one was missing it like an Asian eye. His legs gave him a height of six-foot-one. His torso? Not so much. Watched some Def Comedy Jam last night. They was tight and slinging some funny-ass shit. Really? I never would have guessed, I said. Whenever Tav took an interest in someone, he would mimic that person the best he could. Sometimes it would last a day, sometimes an hour. I usually found Tavs multiple personalities interesting, but that day it was annoying.

Pulling up his chair, Tav plopped down beside me. Yo, you feelin me, bro? You look like you been jacked. I look like Ive been mugged? Yo, you know what Im sayin Wait, I got it. You got a little sumthin, sumthin last night? Sum hollaback girl creep over? I wish. Tav jumped up from his chair and kicked it back under his desk. Yo, I gotta bounce. Got me a sit-down with the white man. Check you later, aight? In the beginning I had done fairly well at the company, but a setback prevented me from truly excelling. Now it seemed impossible to get ahead, yet I hated being on the bottom. Why couldnt I be happy like Tav? Tav was a numbers guycrunch, crunch, crunch, all day long. Normally he would have been assigned to the second floor, but by some mix-up in HR, he had been directed to share a cubicle with me. We never bothered to get it straightened out. I turned back to my desktop. The big blue Teleco logo on my screensaver stared back at me, daring me to become a heavy-hitter. I knew I could be a heavy-hitter. All I needed were the right clients and life would be differentbetter. Would the fame and glory change me? Yup. Would I acquire material things at an alarming rate? Of course. I wrapped my hands around my coffee mug for warmth and settled into my thoughts about the rewards of heavy-hitter status. Like being able to date Hillary Kate, Alix Layng, and Maggie Dolen for instance. They were the three hottest admins in the

entire company. I called them HAM, and I wanted me a bite. I also knew exactly how my encounter with HAM would play out. With heavy-hitter status in tow, I would swing by their desks one by one and zing them with classic Darbytastic one-liners, the perfect icebreakers. Wed talk about the latest viral video that showed a cute kitten stuck in a cereal box or hiding behind Darby! Fantasy over. I looked up and saw Harold Epstein staring down at me. He was the manager who oversaw the bottom-feeder floor. He had on a short-sleeved white dress shirt picked up from Kmart, the kind that didnt need ironing. A pair of tan Dockers rounded out the rest of his edgy outfit. Hey, limp dick, did you hear a word of what I was saying? I quickly shook the thoughts of HAM out my head. Sorry. I was mentally running through my massive to-do list. Harold smiled at me with his Cheshire Cat grin. It was obvious that he spent a greater part of his day outside lighting up with the other puff-puffs. Well, you better start listening, he said as he pulled up a chair and positioned his chipper self opposite me. This enthusiasm wasnt normal. What could possibly have gotten Harold this excited? Management has tasked me with snipping the smallest balls around here and you aint exactly swinging a pair. Looks like your run here is about up, he said, beaming. I reached for my coffee because I really had no response and thought taking a sip of that generic swill would buy me time to think of one.

Put! That! Coffee! Down! For a second I thought of bitch-slapping Harold. He was at the right distance, too. But the rent check that was five days late talked some sense into me. He knows not what he does, my son. Bite your tongue. And thats an order. Harold continued his persecution. Only two new accounts in the last six months. What the hell are you doing here every day? Why the rhetorical question, Harold? You know the answer is Nothing. I sat up straight and in my most enthusiastic voice said, Two? Really? I thought it was only one. Thats great news.

Memo RE: Bite Tongue Status: Unread

Harold wrapped his grubby fist around my only good tie and jerked me forward. His beady eyes tightened like a sphincter. Dont fuck with me, Darby, he said through crooked teeth. You got six months. You hear me, ass-sucker? Six months. Either shape your shit up or Im shipping your shit out. Capisce? Harold stood up and kicked Tavs chair over as he left. Youre not even Italian, I mumbled as he walked away with his knuckles dragging behind him.

I was screwed. I knew it. How am I supposed to compete when all thats left to go after are pizzerias and beauty shops? As much as I dreamed of bringing in a big account and becoming a heavy-hitter, the situation was what it was. All the large accounts were locked up. If only there were territory no one had tapped yet, things would be different. I was sure of that. I picked up Tavs chair and sat back down, depressed about my options. Tav popped back into the cubicle, slurping on his coffee. What did Harold want? he managed between sips. What happened to Def Comedy Jam? Eh, it didnt go over well in the meeting. Harold told me I had six months to improve or hes going to fire me. Whoa, thats harsh. What am I going to do? I cant get fired. Tav played with his chair, more concerned that it wasnt at the right height than he was about me. Hey, are you listening? Yeah, its just this chair was fine earlier. Look, you need to pick up the phone and attack. Call every business in the Yellow Pages Youll be fine. Screw that. Im better than those piece-of-crap businesses. Come on, lets head downstairs. The buses will be leaving for the picnic soon and I want to get a window seat. Ill meet you down there. I want to change out of this suit. And hopefully, out of this slump.

Chapter 2

Once a year, Teleco throws a picnic for its employees at the municipal park. It was managements way to say, We care, without spending a whole lot of dough. Everyone went so they could get out of work, plus the food wasnt half bad. The pice de rsistance was the potato sack race. For some reason, whoever won it was put up on a pedestal for the day. Tav, why is it after working here for two whole years, we still dont know anybody? Speak for yourself. I know plenty of peeps here. No sooner had I opened my mouth than an energetic blonde appeared before us. Her long, sun-kissed hair draped over half of her face, leaving one of her sea-green eyes in the open. She wore skinny jeans and a Carolina blue hoodie, and had the right amount of freckles on her nose. Hi, Tavy. How are things? Hey, Izzy. Long time, Tav said as he hugged her. When are we gonna hang again? The two looked like they were actually friends, moved beyond the coworker/associate stage. I was shocked. I assumed Tavs social circle at work was closer to mine: nonexistent. Its not like I didnt like my coworkers. I nodded to people in hallways and held the elevator when someone asked me to. Wasnt that friendly behavior?

Whenever. Stop by my desk. Well figure something out, Izzy said. I eyed her butt as she scurried away before turning to Tav. Okay, first off, how do you know her? And second, why no introduction? Sorry, my bad. Her name is Isabel but everyone calls her Izzy. She works in operations. We usually hit up the vending machines together over on three. Geez, even Tav was deep in the game. Hugging, high-fiving, talking about the weekend get-togethers and vending machine meet-ups. Where was I during this? I spotted the Heavys over by the big oak tree, stopped to observe, and almost puked. The way they congratulated each other 24/7it was so self-indulgent. Typical locker room crap. Hey, great sale, bro! Love how you closed. Dude never saw it coming. Thats baller, bro. Darby, forget those guys, Tav said. They think theyre so cool. Slapping each other on the butt, hugging it out. Bunch of homoerotic behavior if you ask me, I said. Youre jealous. I was. Truth be told, I was actually a heavy when I first started. Well, I had the status for three weeks. Ill be the first to admit I got lucky at Teleco with a client right out of the gate. I scored Gopher, Inc., a start-up tech company in Chinatown. Long story short, their PassPorto app exploded onto the digital scene. It became the most downloaded app in two days and was hailed by every magazine as the coolest app out there. Id been about to embark on a finantastical (part finance, part fantastical) adventure with Robin Leach in tow. Until Harold screwed me.

I couldnt prove it, but I knew he was behind the account getting yanked from me. Somehow the orders placed by Gopher were getting screwed up. Word had gotten back to the higher-ups and the next thing I knew, management pulled me off the biz. Gopher was an important client now, and Teleco wanted to keep them happy. Within the year, the company was able to bill them for a cool million. Frank Rose, the Heavy who took over the account, now drove a different Porsche to work every day of the week. Without Gopher, I was demoted to bottom-feeder status pronto. Id been next to Tav ever since, trying to figure out a way back into the club, preferably by destroying Harold in the process.

Chapter 3

In order to hit home runs, youve got to swing big. And I had brought my bat. Excuse me, folks. Pardon me, I said pushing my way through a crowd gathered around a table. Thank you, Ill take that marker. Darb, what are you doing? Im signing up for the potato sack race. But only heavy-hitters enter the race. Youll be creamed, Darb. Yeah, but if I win, it could buy me some time. Tav stood there shrugging his shoulders. Seems like youre taking a huge risk. Lose, and it could work against you. Look, I need to bring some positive attention to myself. My jobs in jeopardy. And this is your plan? I guess its better than blackmailing your clients. Blackmail? I like to think it was motivated buying. It was true though. My three clients were Fat Sals Pizzeria, the Beauty Spot Salon, and Tanakas Kendo Dojo. None of them needed anything I had to sell. My idea had been to convince my clients to buy product by letting them know I knew about their dark secrets. After closing time, macho Fat Sal liked to pick up skinny twinks in the Tenderloin. I showed him the photographic evidence and an invoice to purchase ten routers. Thats when things went downhill. I narrowly escaped with my life. I no longer visit that part of townfor safety reasons. You got a better idea?

Uh, hello? How about working the phones? You know, get some new clients, perhaps another start-up? Tav was right, but I didnt want to hear it. My mind was already committed. An hour later I was sandwiched between two heavy-hitters, Mike Rowland and Jason McClure. The two outweighed me and outspent me. The entire company had lined up, creating a gauntlet of massive proportions. I watched HAM push their way to the front of the crowd. Confusion, then laughter overcame their face as their attention focused on me. Go ahead and laugh. Enjoy yourselves. The crack of the gun launched my body into motion. My eyes slammed shut and my legs pounded the ground. After what felt like a half hour, I opened my eyes. To my surprise, there was no one in front of me. I couldnt believe it. I was actually leading the pack by a huge margin. My body moved like a finely tuned fighter jet. Feet, knees, thighs, and arms they were all taking orders from the brain. Yes, sir. Aye-aye, Captain. Right away. Cooperation was the word of the day. My limbs knew what was at stake. I only needed to continue my mad hopping and victory would be mine. Fifty, forty, thirtythe finish line drew closer with every hop. I was a mere twenty yards away from capturing Teleco stardom. I couldnt wait to cross the finish line. My coworkers would shout, Whats your name? and I would shout back, Its Darby! Remember me! Management wouldnt dare fire the potato sack champ, at least not for a year. HAM would most definitely rush over and fawn over my sweaty body. The Heavys

would have no choice but to hoist me up on their shoulders and carry me around. Heck, I would even be given first crack at the dessert station when it opened. Finally, one of my ideas was about to pay off. As I neared the finish line, I caught site of Harold Epstein staring at me. I laughed at him. Suck it up and go find someone else to can. He gave me that stupid smirk of his and shouted, Dont blow it, Darby. Those four words set in motion a series of events from which I would never recover. Right then, the big toe on my left foot tangled with the bottom left corner of the sack. I had made a last minute decision to jump barefoot and it had come back to haunt me. I tried to shake it free and hop at the same time but it wasnt working. My rhythm started to fall apart. Maybe I could hang on. My hopping had slowed and my form was ugly but winning was what mattered. Only eight jumps to the finish line. And then my big toe rolled under my foot as I landed. Aaarrrggghhh, I yelled. My leg buckled from what felt like a thousand sewing needles stabbing my toe. My fall from grace had commenced. No matter how hard I tried, I was unable to regain my footing. It was as if my body suddenly didnt understand. No comprendo sus instrucciones, seor. The Teleco gauntlet was in an uproar as I tripped and skipped and hobbled my way to the inevitable. I looked back toward Harold, the trigger. There he stood, upright, when he should have been on all fours. Big belly laughs shot out of his mouth as he slapped his thigh.

Thats what I last remember before I slammed face first into the ground, knocking myself unconscious. And if that wasnt enough, the ground cushioned the blow to my face with a pile of dog ouch!

Chapter 4

I didnt know what to expect when I crutched into work the next day. The doctor told me my toe had a hairline fracture and I would be in a cast for a couple of weeks. I tapped the elevator button repeatedly. I didnt want to be trapped in that steel box with a coworker as they stared at the loser on crutches. Ding! The doors opened and I quickly crutched forward, spinning around without my feet so much as grazing the elevator floor, and hit the sixth floor button. As the doors started to close, I took a deep breath and relaxed. Suddenly a thick arm dressed in navy blue polyester-like material shoved its way in at the last second, reversing the direction of the doors. My stomach tightened as I waited for the mystery passenger to reveal himself. Are you there, God? Its me, Darby Margarets friend. I need you to do me this one solid and not let it be Harold Crap. Thanks for nothing. Harold took his time as he sauntered into the elevator in his off-the-rack suit from Sears, the husky section, with a big stupid grin that said, Hi, Im a chronic masturbator. While his beady eyes got busy beading, I spied a red pen peeking out of his blazer. It accented his red and blue striped tie. Way to accessorize, dick. Tough break, huh, shitface? Harold said as he burst into laughter. You get it? Tough break. Shitface, he said as he pointed to my foot and then my face.

I wanted to shove my crutch down his throat. He kept repeating his stupid joke all the way up to the sixth floor. Seconds felt like hours. Keep calm, I told myself. Hes got the upper hand now. It took all I had to ignore him. Luckily, Harold was heading up to twelve, land of the heavy-hitters, probably to kiss a bunch of ass. I let a silent-but-deadly slip out as I exited the elevator. It was the little things that made life at Teleco bearable. Things didnt get any better. The laughter at Teleco was nonstop all day long. Before leaving the office, I made plans to work from home the rest of the week. A few days out of the spotlight would do my ego some good. However, sitting at home with a large cast on my foot wasnt exactly going to save my job either. I knew that much. I needed motivation. I needed another idea. But Goodfellas was on. Watching Paulies crew relay messages back and forth in the rain was one of my favorite parts. Though as a phone guy, it didnt strike me as the most efficient way of communicating. I could think of a dozen better ways but I guess it worked back then. It was almost six when my stomach began to growl. I thought of ordering in but convinced myself the fresh air would do me some good. Plus, I was on crutches. Fun. Uncle Fus was my favorite restaurant. It was a small dive place in Chinatown on Washington Street, tucked in between Waverly and Grant. The food wasnt extraordinary but it was decent. Ever since I discovered it a few years ago, Id managed to eat there at least three times a week by myself, more with Tav. Chicken chop suey was my standard. I hopped onto the Muni Bus, No. 1 line. I liked to call it the Old Chinese People Bus. It was the main vein into Chinatown from the inner Richmond area, which

coincidentally was the second Chinatown in the city. By the time the bus reached my stop in Pacific Heights, most of the seats were taken by the Peoples Republic of China. Not today, though. I got crutches. Move over, little ones. I had brought the Teleco Sales Manual along with me, thinking it would be a good idea to brush up on some sales techniques. What can I say? I was desperate. The sales manual for Teleco was the Bible for the heavy-hitters; they swore by it. I, on the other hand, had not once cracked the spine on that monstrosity. Bound by metal loops, the puke-green manual weighed close to three pounds and detailed sales advice for every single one of Telecos products. Help me, Gerald, I thought as I slipped the manual out of my backpack. Gerald Thorn, the vice president of sales at Teleco, wrote the manual almost fifteen years ago. He was the brightest salesperson to pass through Telecos front doors. He could close anybody. I flipped through the manual, releasing old library book smells. From the get-go, I noticed it wasnt about how Telecos products could help a company but how a companys problems could suit our products needs. Rule No. 1: Dont look at their business for what it is but look at it for what it can become. Gerald argued that it was always easier to make their problems fit our products rather than make our products fit their problems. He said, You cant change the cell phone. It is what it is. But you can change a problem so it fits the functionality of the cell phone.

Maybe that was my problem. I wasnt looking at the big picture. Step back, look at the situation from every angle, and make it fit my problem. Perhaps Gerald did know a thing or two.

Chapter 5

Stockton Street, the bus driver called out. I, along with most of the Asian Nation, began shuffling off one by one. This was where the majority of the fresh produce and live meat markets could be found and where most of San Franciscos Chinese community did their daily shopping. The Chinese were more obsessed with freshness than a douche commercial. I headed south from the markets, hobbled along Clay Street, and then cut across Waverly Lane. It was the most direct pathsomething my crutch-working arms appreciated. The only way into Mr. Fus restaurant was through the kitchen. Entering the fivefoot-wide space was like squeezing through a narrow hallway full of chopping, dishwashing, and stir-frying. The size of the space permitted no other options. Toward the back where the owner, Mr. Fu, worked the wok was a steep, narrow flight of metal stairs led to a tiny, cozy dining room on the second floor. Only eight wooden tables fit the space. Each of them sat unevenly on the aged linoleum floor. But I liked the place. It fit me. I got to know Mr. Fu by walking through the kitchen. Thats if you call saying hello along with some polite chitchat and nothing more getting to know someone. As usual, Mr. Fu stood behind the hot wok stirring and scooping when I entered the kitchen. Yellow and brown stains covered most of the apron double-wrapped around his waist. A cotton undershirt and a hairnet completed his daily uniform.

Darby, what happen? he said. Perhaps it was the daunting task of hiking myself up the stairs, but I stopped and answered him. Bad potato bag. Mr. Fu looked at me for a second, confused. I thought he might ask me to explain, but he waved off my answer. He stopped playing Iron Chef long enough to motion me toward a bunch of white buckets in the corner. A soybean flew off his metal spatula in the process. I watched it sail across the kitchen and stick to the wall. Sit, he said. I took a seat on one of the five-gallon buckets of soy sauce, wondering if there was such a thing as bucket etiquette. From there I had a front row seat to Cooking with Mr. Fu. Mostly he did the same moves over and over. Holding the wok in his left hand, he would jerk it back and forth, flipping the veggies and meat on every second push forward. His right hand controlled the round metal spatula, which he used for everything else. To add broth, oil, and food even to turn the water faucet on and off when he needed to rinse out the wok. It was an extension of his arm. When he reached for the faucet, I noticed his tattoo. With each shake of the wok, his shirt rode up on his shoulder giving me a peek. I had never seen it before. Then again, Id never paid such close attention to Mr. Fu. I lifted up a crutch and pointed. You got a tattoo? Consumed with his cooking, Mr. Fu didnt answer.

I made my point a bit louder. Mr. Fu, you have a tattoo? On your shoulder? Still silence. Is he deaf or ignoring me? I tried once again, practically yelling. Mr. Fu grabbed a bowl and scooped my chop suey into it. He looked at the ground as he handed me the bowl, still not saying anything. I greedily attacked the bowl while trying to keep the conversation going between bites. I said you have a tattoo? Wasnt sure if you heard me. I hear. I not deaf, he said accenting his point with his spatula. Oh From long time ago. When I live Hong Kong. Not important now. Can I see it? No. Why? No. Why? Why? Why? Why? That all you know? A blank look appeared on his face. I assumed his mind was busy processing my request. And just like that, he put the spatula down and pulled the back of his shirt over his shoulders. First off, Mr. Fu appeared to be in tiptop shape. Surprising for a guy who looked to be in his fifties. Muscles popped out of his backeven his arms were well toned. The cook get-up definitely camouflaged his physical prowess. The highly detailed black tattoo crawled across his entire back: a scaly serpent with a snakelike tail that coiled on forever. The claws looked as if they were hooked into

Mr. Fus skin, giving the impression the animal was climbing up his back. The head twisted its way up onto his shoulder, where the mouth showcased a row of razor-sharp teeth. There were also a bunch of Chinese characters stacked vertically. Mr. Fu, thats insane. How? Why? I blurted. This long time ago from Hong Kong. Young and stupid, he said. He held out his spatula, waiting for me to place my empty bowl on it. He flicked the dish into a nearby sink and turned the faucet on to rinse it out. Young and stupid? Was he in a gang? Nah, couldnt 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. 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. Fus revelation, I completely forgot about the task at hand: saving my job. I wanted to know more about Mr. Fus mysterious past. Maybe it would spark ideas, I foolishly thought. Regardless, this was procrastination at its finest. Who could argue with this? Tomorrow night, around sixyou 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 6

Later that evening, Mr. Fu swept up the last of the kitchen droppings, mostly raw veggie appendages. He ignored the small area toward the back of the kitchen 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 had 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 Darbys 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, hed 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 dont tell. Only show him tattoo. You dont plan on telling him more tomorrow night? No, its 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 youre 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 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 restaurants only overnight enforcer. The fog was thick and blanketed the entire city that night. Sometimes visibility could be as bad as ten feet. That night was one of those sometimes. Mr. Fu took a deep breath. He loved breathing in the cool 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 had kept their secrets from others for so long. It was time to stop. The Voice had already decided it had had enough. It could not return to the older ways. It didnt want to. It seemed like hoursit probably wasthat 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, shorthaired 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 7

It chops, it shreds, it slicesit even juliennes! the pitchman on the television shouted at me. You cant find another product that can do so much while taking up so little space. 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 savingseven 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 continued to peruse the manual. Telecos wireless business solutions help organizations improve their communication, thus increasing their efficiency, making them productive and successful. Yawn. I started to lose focus. One by one, my thoughts collided, eventually they became a mishmash of the days sound bytes. My mind rambled on.

We help organizations Chop suey An efficient business with Teleco Wise guy Tell me, Mr. Fu Increase your organizations 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 8

This had to be word association at its finest. Like a jigsaw puzzle, the solution to my problem locked itself into shape, piece by piece. A large smile split my face in half. Hair erections stood proudly on both arms. I knew this feeling all too well: that moment right before a Darbytastic idea vomits out of my mouth. If wireless business solutions can help organizations like Apple, IBM, and McDonalds become successful, why cant they help organizations like the Mafia, the Yakuza, or the Triads? It was fantasticthe 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 had been 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 efficiencyall of which Telecos clients were currently experiencing. The idea was brilliant. It was Darbytastic squared. I would increase the underworlds bottom line with my special arsenal of weapons: wireless business solutions, mobile phones, broadband cards, IP convergenceall kinds of cool shit.

And more importantly, this newfound business would assure the return of my heavy-hitter 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 cant do this. Yes, you can I think. Shut up, Darby! No, wait. Its the best idea youve had ever. For real? Yes, for real. Breathe, Darby. Breathe. It was close to two in the morning but I called Tav anyway and convinced him to meet me for lunch at his favorite restaurant, the Golden Flower, later that day. By the time I poured my second cup of coffee the next morning, Id 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 wasnt that stupid. I knew they didnt 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. Thats right. When a gang goes out of business, its 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 firsthand knowledge of how they operated. I needed to get over to Chinatown. Chop, chop.

Chapter 9

Kowloon Peninsula, Hong Kong 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 upand-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 restaurants 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. 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. Its 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 bosss hand and tucked it, blade down, into the front pocket of his bosss 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 restaurant the wait staff could not contain 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 10

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 hadnt always been like this though. There were happier times, but that had all ended when breast cancer took Sings mother away from him a little over fifteen years ago. Complicating matters more was Sings 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 fathers 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 tiethe official dress code for the gang. He insisted the gang dress this way, even though most of the members couldnt afford the getup. 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 the gang had very little control of the area. Sing looked at his two bumbling sidekicks and let out a long sigh. Whats the count? HK$2,045, the larger of the two replied.

Thats it? The fatter one, 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 he was angry that it wasnt 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 Woeven Sing at one point. Chu handed Sing the money. What are we doing with the money, boss? The days 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. Ill 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. Sings father had 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. Thats why I worry. How do we know hes not keeping the money for himself? Whats 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. Its 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 gangs interest is top of mind for him. And thats exactly what bothered Chu. Were these interests for the gang or for Sings 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 recruitseasily the most promising. A standout, 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 Guantheyre 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 cant risk the police getting involved. Chu grabbed Sings arm. But hes dying. A muffled cry escaped from the table where the restaurant staff had gathered. Sings father wrapped a towel tightly around Wos 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 11

Within minutes, Lee Tai had fetched his uncles delivery van so that Sing and Chu could get Wos 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 to keep Wos death quiet. Sing had already warned the restaurant workers to keep their mouths shut before leaving with the body. Boss, whats 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 got back to the remaining brothers, there would be anger and questions to deal with. He wasnt sure how much longer he could hold them off 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 losses, their total count was down to eighteen, though not all of those losses were due to attackssome of the brothers lost interest, got arrested, or were too stupid and of no use. Yet even with the gangs 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 didnt appear to be random either. The smarter members were targetedthat 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 emotionless to carry out such an act. Chu had 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 betterbe prepared for attacks. Weapons cost money.

We have moneythe 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. Sings 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 spot on a crate in the back. But if you must know, I will repeat what Ive already told you. I have plans that will better benefit the gang than a few weapons will. Youre not the only one who can plan, Chu thought.

Chapter 12

San Francisco, California Ninety percent of the hustle and muscle of Chinatown came from an army of fourfoot, nine-inch, cane-wielding, Mandarin-speaking seniors. 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. My search for Triads wasnt proving to be fruitful. I had no idea what I was doing. Darby, I heard a voice yell out. I turned around and saw Tav sidestepping his way through the crowd. Hey, hows the leg? Tav asked as he patted me on the back. Its holding up. I think Ill be out of it sooner than later. When we got to the Golden Flower, Tav maneuvered 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. I see youre not used to the foot yet, Tav said. What makes you say that? Wait until it starts to itch. Youll need a wire hanger to get at the good spots.

I dont 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 didnt mind it. I always ordered the same dish off the menu: No. 7, Teng Tav Bo. Beef balls with chunks of brisket. It was pretty good. So whats all this secret talk about? I have a plan that will save my job at Teleco and turn me into a heavy-hitter, I said with a calm authority. Thats great, Darb. I knew you would buckle down and hit the phones. This doesnt involve making phone calls. Huh? Please dont 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. Fus help and how a case study would be the perfect takeaway 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 Tavs saying anything.

Well, dont just sit there, I said. Say something like, Great idea, Darb. Youre awesome. Boy, this pho is delicious. Tavs 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 underworldjust the Triads, really. Well thats who Im gonna go after first. I gotta start some Tav waved both his hands out in front of me. Stop, stop. You mean to tell me youre actually considering this? My excitement dropped a bit. Well, yeah But Im 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 isnt something I want to broadcast, you know? You gotta keep it low. 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 isnt about saving your job. This is about getting back to heavy-hitter land to prove to everyone, yourself and Harold, that you arent a fluke.

I couldnt deny that what Tav said was true. I wanted back into the club and I wanted to rub it in Harolds face. Whats wrong with that? I want more than a job. I thought the blackmailing plan was crazy, but this totally crushes that. Tav twirled a big mound of white noodles around his chopstick 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, Ive given it a lot of thought. I really have. And the best part is, I believe it can work. I mean really work. I need time to take this in. Its a lot, Darb. Tav brought his bowl up to his lips and let the basil-enhanced broth drain into his mouth. Tav youre my best friend. I need to know you believe me when I say everything will be fineand even more importantly, that you got my back like you always do. Well, I gotta say you certainly have outdone every idea you have ever pitched to me since we were seven. Tav stood up. Its late. I gotta get back for a staff meeting. I left thirty bucks on the table. Even though it didnt look like it, I knew Tav would come around. I also knew he would get involved. He always did.

Chapter 13

It was nearly six oclock when I arrived at Mr. Fus. I peered inside and saw him handling his wok in the back while one of the girls on staff ran a tray of food up the steps. Both of them looked crazed, so I slipped in quietly and sat on the same bucket from the night before. I figured Mr. Fu would get to me when he had the chance. I waited for two minutes before clearing my throat. Mr. Fu turned around and pointed to a knife on a counter. I sensed he wanted me to do some sort of work but I felt lazy. I played dumb and shrugged my shoulders. Knife, he said. Cut vegetables. Confused, I asked, Why? He said, You scratch me on back. I scratch you on back. I rolled my eyes thinking this was bullshit, but then I remembered why I was here in the first placethe killer idea. Plus, it was only vegetables. The knife he gave me was actually a heavy cleaversolid metal with a wooden handle. I let out a loud sigh and got on with it. About an hour into my chopfest, my hand began to cramp. I wouldnt have been surprised if my right thumb gave me the middle finger. To add insult, I wasnt even getting paid to do this. Plus there wasnt any music to listen toonly the clatter of kitchenware. Whatever. Tonight I would make Mr. Fu tell me everything. I planned on working the old man like a KGB interrogator. Vee have vays of making you talk.

It was nearing nine thirty when things finally slowed. I washed the equivalent of Mount Fuji in dishes and I was pretty sure I filled a bazillion takeout boxes. After wiping down the counters, I sat near Mr. Fu. Im beat. You got a lot from me tonight, I said, wiping sweat off my forehead. He scooped chop suey into a bowl and handed it to me with a grunt. I was starved and started shoveling food into my mouth. Mr. Fu also fixed himself a bowl. Good? All I could manage was, Uh-huh. Mr. Fu filled up a metal teapot from one of the large industrial urns and poured us each a scalding cup of tea that was completely undrinkable, at least for fifteen minutes. We ate in silence, the way men do. No need for conversation. It wasnt long before we were both swirling toothpicks in our mouths. Mr. Fu cleared his throat. I live in Hong Kong, Kowloon part. Poor family. No money for anything, only food. I listened quietly. This was what I wanted, what I hoped for. Full disclosure. One day I meet another boyLim. He has nice clothes, a new bike, and sweets in his pocket. All the kids at the playground very impressed. Nobody had money. I nodded. So I ask Lim where he get money. He tell me he has good-paying job and he can get me one, too. Were you scared? I mean you didnt know this kid. No. I wanted bike. He took me to the Tsim Sha Tsui district. Back then it was bad part of town. Lots of thieves.

Were you scared then? No. I wanted bike. He took me into a restaurant. Only see five men sitting around a table. Lots of laughing and drinking. Were they Triads? Mr. Fu nodded with a grunt. His eyes were closed slightly. I could see he was digging into a past he wanted to forget. Did they give you a job? What happened? The boy Lim talked to one of the men. I dont know what he say. The man, he ask if I want to make money. You said yes? Mr. Fu nodded. I say I do anything for money. Then he whisper something to Lim. When he done, Lim tells me we leave now. Where did you guys go? When we get outside, another boy join us, I dont remember name. We walk down the street to a dim sum shop. Lim say wait outside and open your eyes. I dont know what he mean, so I ask. He say to shut up. Clearly Mr. Fu had been the lookout and some crazy shit was about to go down. Then I hear yelling inside shop. I peek inside. Lim and other boy are yelling at the man. They keep asking about money. Mr. Fu was no longer looking at me. He was playing with the tiny bit of scruff on his chin. He was lost in the past, his eyes locked on the kitchen floor. Why didnt you leave? I keep thinking about the bike.

And? I look back. Lim is holding knife. Hes yelling for the money and then Mr. Fu ran his finger across his neck and stuck his tongue out. What did you do? I asked. Nothing. I scared. The man run out of the shop holding his neck and fall down next to me. Blood everywhere. I was speechless. Mr. Fu placed his head in both of his hands. Like a little boy he sat there quietly, his breathing rapid. One minute he was a grumpy old man; the next minute he was a big mess of chop suey. What about the other two boys? Theyre just as guilty as you. What happened to them? Mr. Fu didnt answer me right away, opting instead to empty the teapot. He held it above the sink and let the still steaming liquid drain out of the spout. He then took our empty bowls and rinsed them in the sink. I wondered if he was saving the dishwashing soap for a special occasion. Lim take all the money from the shop. When he come out he give me HK$5. Tell me come back if I want more. And I bet you kept going back, didnt you?

Chapter 14

The Voice watched the two as they chatted. They couldnt leave each other alone, like Siamese twins they were. One day Darby was a customer, the next day a confidant? Whatever was going on between them, The Voice liked it. All these years it listened to Mr. Fu like an obedient son. Doing what it was told. Playing nice. Clearly it wasnt going to happen anymore. Im back, The Voice snickered. So was the fog. Thick like a milkshake, it slogged through Chinatown. Visibility was poor. Sounds were muffled. The Voice liked this. Together we can accomplish a lot. Watching Darby leave the restaurant, The Voice realized he had him to thank for his impending comeback. He would not be a victim yet. Darby would be allowed to live a little longerallowed to watch and see what he was responsible for. Congratulations, Darby. San Francisco will live in fear because of you. Stupid little man. It had been a long time since The Voice had allowed his emotions room to breathe, but once he did there was no holding back. The cravings were stronglike an alcoholic to the bottle, like an addict to the pipe, like a killer to his weapon. The Voice felt alive, overjoyed. Who to kill first? Who to take off the street? Someone had to go. Someone had to be the first, the one to warm up on. The Voice wandered through Chinatown. With a new lease on life, it looked at every passing person as an opportunitylike a jolly kid in a candy shop.

Hey, fat woman shopping for gifts, how about you? Would you like to be first? The Voice took such pleasure in this impromptu shopping spree. No, wait Across the street. You there, standing next to the street sign, the one handing out menuscare to die? What luck, The Voice thought. The poor little woman had run out of menus and was heading back to the restaurant. The Voice moved in like a fox, a ninja fox. He was close on her tail as she walked toward the door. Keeping in step, blending with the crowd, The Voice was proud of its instinctive tracking. Even after all these years, nothing was lost. The tiny woman stopped for a second, as if she had sensed someone walking closely behind in step. Yes, turn around. Do you sense me? Turn around. Make this a challenge. But that wasnt the case. The silly old woman reached down and scratched her calf. Ah, you old whore, how stupid you are. Dont you realize a killer is shadowing you? Im right here. Turn around. Face me. Face death. Then the old woman stepped into a nearby alleyway. I dont recommend that. Attention, Chinatown: Never, ever walk into an alley when I am behind you. Fumbling around in her pants pocket, the old woman took out a bunch of used tissue and headed toward a dumpster. The Voice thought to take a second to look around but decided there was no need. Witnesses or not, The Voice was committed. Turn around. I want to see your eyes. Refresh my memory of what terror is like.

The woman tossed the tissues into dumpster and did an about-face. Her brown eyes met those of The Voice for a brief moment. She started to smile and apologize for the near collision. If only she knew this traffic jam was meant to happen. The Voice held the knife up in plain sight causing her eyes to widen. Yes, thats what I was looking for. Thank you. In one single move, the voice stepped to the side of her as it brought the knife around. The blade cut deeply across her neck nearly severing the head. Her body fell back, alongside the dumpster. The Voice never missed a step and continued down the alley. It still had what it took. No hesitation. No mistakes. No survivors. The Voice was back and it wanted more.