Read Online Blood Passage by Michael J. McCann - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Michael J. McCann
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Lexington Street in the heart of Chinatown that featured an old smoke-stained tin ceiling and booths with cracked red vinyl. A bar made of scrap wood and pieces of wall paneling ran down the middle of the seating area. The Bright Spot was owned by a numbered company controlled by Peter, and he used the entire top floor of the three-story building for his home and office. The second floor was split into a large apartment and several rooms. The apartment was used by the restaurant manager, Yi, and his family. The rooms were for other employees of Peter who needed a place to sleep while on call. Behind Peter was a staircase that led upstairs. There was also a fire escape in back. Security was not a problem, since Peter had installed state-of-the-art technology throughout the building that was backed up by a great deal of firepower in the hands of his employees.
A few old men sat at a table nearby amusing themselves with a game of fan tan, tea cups at their elbows and hand-rolled cigarettes dangling from their lips. Yi had emerged from the kitchen where Millie Lung, the cook, was overseeing preparations for the dinner rush. He sat on a stool at the bar reading a Chinese newspaper. The waiter, Yi’s brother-in-law Wu, was behind the bar talking quietly on the telephone to his wife, Yi’s older sister. The conversation was not going well. It was well known that Wu’s wife kept him constantly in debt. She seemed to be asking him for money for something. There was little that Wu could do about it except say yes, since Yi was sitting there listening to every word he said.
Peter was glad he was single. It kept his options open. He was 31 years old and very good-looking, with boyish tousled long hair worn in a fashionable retro Beatles cut that was carefully maintained on a weekly basis by his personal hairdresser in the salon above the Golden Dragon. He wore a thousand-dollar black suit, a crisp white shirt and a pearl grey Hermès tie. He wore a diamond stud on each earlobe and sported a Breitling chronometer on his wrist. He also had a Glock 27 sub-compact .40 caliber hand gun in a holster on his belt under his jacket. He liked the gun because it was small and light. His fingers were delicate and slender, and the gun fit comfortably in his hand without the need of a grip extender. He was not sure if there was a license around somewhere for it. His cousin Stevie had given it to him a year ago and he kept it because he liked it as a possession, just as he also liked the Breitling or the iPhone sitting on the table in front of him, propped up on an angle against a thick white napkin. His eyes were currently focused on the screen, watching a horse race on which he had wagered ten grand. He was listening to a Cantonese feed through the wireless earbud in his right ear. He was going to lose the ten grand. Whatever.
He started to think about ordering lunch. His personal chef, Daniel Chun, had said something this morning about fresh cantaloupes he’d just received and a recipe for mut gua op sah lud , roast duck and melon salad that he wanted to try. Peter thought it sounded good. He was looking forward to a quiet meal. However, it was not meant to be.
Footsteps across the floor of the dining area brought his eyes up as Billy Fung and Tang Lei slouched toward him. Billy had his hands shoved into the pockets of his plum-colored jacket. Tang’s hands hung empty at his sides. They were alone. Sighing, Peter removed the earbud and dropped it into his jacket pocket.
“ Imagine my disappointment when you did not return yesterday from the errand on which I sent you,” Peter said.
They stood at the edge of the table. It was understood they were not allowed to sit down. Billy was seven years younger than Peter and anxious to please. Tang, on the other hand, was an older man, in his middle thirties. He was stolid and stupid. Unimaginative in his leather jacket and cowboy boots. Also quite sadistic, particularly with his hands and feet.
A few old men sat at a table nearby amusing themselves with a game of fan tan, tea cups at their elbows and hand-rolled cigarettes dangling from their lips. Yi had emerged from the kitchen where Millie Lung, the cook, was overseeing preparations for the dinner rush. He sat on a stool at the bar reading a Chinese newspaper. The waiter, Yi’s brother-in-law Wu, was behind the bar talking quietly on the telephone to his wife, Yi’s older sister. The conversation was not going well. It was well known that Wu’s wife kept him constantly in debt. She seemed to be asking him for money for something. There was little that Wu could do about it except say yes, since Yi was sitting there listening to every word he said.
Peter was glad he was single. It kept his options open. He was 31 years old and very good-looking, with boyish tousled long hair worn in a fashionable retro Beatles cut that was carefully maintained on a weekly basis by his personal hairdresser in the salon above the Golden Dragon. He wore a thousand-dollar black suit, a crisp white shirt and a pearl grey Hermès tie. He wore a diamond stud on each earlobe and sported a Breitling chronometer on his wrist. He also had a Glock 27 sub-compact .40 caliber hand gun in a holster on his belt under his jacket. He liked the gun because it was small and light. His fingers were delicate and slender, and the gun fit comfortably in his hand without the need of a grip extender. He was not sure if there was a license around somewhere for it. His cousin Stevie had given it to him a year ago and he kept it because he liked it as a possession, just as he also liked the Breitling or the iPhone sitting on the table in front of him, propped up on an angle against a thick white napkin. His eyes were currently focused on the screen, watching a horse race on which he had wagered ten grand. He was listening to a Cantonese feed through the wireless earbud in his right ear. He was going to lose the ten grand. Whatever.
He started to think about ordering lunch. His personal chef, Daniel Chun, had said something this morning about fresh cantaloupes he’d just received and a recipe for mut gua op sah lud , roast duck and melon salad that he wanted to try. Peter thought it sounded good. He was looking forward to a quiet meal. However, it was not meant to be.
Footsteps across the floor of the dining area brought his eyes up as Billy Fung and Tang Lei slouched toward him. Billy had his hands shoved into the pockets of his plum-colored jacket. Tang’s hands hung empty at his sides. They were alone. Sighing, Peter removed the earbud and dropped it into his jacket pocket.
“ Imagine my disappointment when you did not return yesterday from the errand on which I sent you,” Peter said.
They stood at the edge of the table. It was understood they were not allowed to sit down. Billy was seven years younger than Peter and anxious to please. Tang, on the other hand, was an older man, in his middle thirties. He was stolid and stupid. Unimaginative in his leather jacket and cowboy boots. Also quite sadistic, particularly with his hands and feet.
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