Stephen Knight - White Tiger

The sum was more than Chen Song had been prepared to handle. “ Two hundred thousand American dollars? Uncle, I realize you want the Fujianese dead, but that’s practically robbery-”

Chen Gui held up his finger, and Chen Song fell silent. “What you call ‘robbery’ is the only thing that will get us our territory back,” he intoned. “There is no other way, nephew. If the Bai Hu can kill the Fujianese leader, then those of us who still remain in Japan can move against the rest of their gang, while I plan our return. With fresh troops from Shanghai. The yakuza will wait for us, as you yourself observed our goods are the cheapest on the market right now.”

“But two hundred-” Chen Song’s mind was still spinning. While his uncle often went on about his great generosity, the fact of the matter was he was considered viciously miserly, even when contrasted against the typical Shanghainese stereotype. To know that he had such liquid assets was not surprising; that he would willingly transfer it to a foreign scum like the Bai Hu most certainly was. Chen Gui had offered Chen Song a paltry $25,000 bonus for the hit.

“The money is nothing compared to what we lose if we fail in Japan,” Chen Gui interrupted. “And if we fail in Japan, nephew, you know what will happen. We’ll lose our status, and we’ll be back to watching over Ma jiang parlors and brothels and perhaps supplying drugs to the new red princes and princesses. I very much would like to avoid that line of work. Not only is it unprofitable, it could get us killed by our own government.” Despite all the changes mainland China had undertaken, drug trafficking was still an offense that carried a mandatory death penalty, even while those in power in Beijing occasionally dabbled with that particular forbidden fruit.

“I can’t believe you paid the Bai Hu so much,” Chen Song said forlornly.

“Better him than you!” Chen Gui snapped. “At least he could get the job done!”

Chen Song’s face clouded as his anger deepened, threatening to spiral well out of his control. Chen Gui watched it happen with narrowed eyes, and Chen Song knew it gave him some measure of satisfaction.

“I should have killed him when I had the chance,” Chen Song muttered, looking away.

“You? Kill the Bai Hu? ” Chen Gui threw back his head and laughed. “I’d pay another two hundred thousand to see that! Nephew, when it comes to things such as killing, you’re no match for the Bai Hu . Otherwise, why would I retain him?”

Chen Song crossed to the window and contemplated the harbor below as his uncle had done minutes earlier. Behind him, The Sopranos played to an audience of none. He crossed his muscular arms across his chest and glared at the boats below, wrestling with his anger and his hatred…for both the American and his uncle.

“You give the Bai Hu far too much face, uncle,” he hissed. “And you take away for too much of mine!”

“Then all you need to do to earn back that face is do the work I give you,” Chen Gui said evenly. “The Bai Hu doesn’t allow ambition or his personal standing in our organization to cloud his judgment. He does what he does for his own reasons.”

Chen Song laughed bitterly. “Ha! So now you think I’m too ambitious, uncle?”

Chen Gui said nothing for a time. Chen Song let the silence play out, refusing to do anything which might give his uncle room to maneuver away from answering the question.

“I think your view is short and narrow,” Chen Gui said finally. “You need to look farther down the road.”

Chen Song started to speak, but Chen Gui’s phone suddenly broke into the tunes of Yankee Doodle Dandy. Chen Gui almost dropped the phone, but after fumbling with it for a moment, his fat fingers fairly flew over the keypad, summoning the waiting text message. Chen Song turned and watched as Chen Gui scanned the text for a moment, then grinned. He tossed the phone to Chen Song, who caught it fluidly. He turned it over in his hand and looked at the phone’s color liquid crystal display.

Accomplished. WT.

“Ha! He’s done it!” the portly Shanghainese crowed. “He’s done it! Soon we’ll be able to return to Japan!”

There was a knock at the door, and Chen Gui’s grin faded. Chen Song turned and faced the hotel room door; he glanced back at Chen Gui. Chen Gui licked his lips nervously and nodded.

“Answer the door, nephew,” he said as mildly as he could.

Chen Song walked to the door slowly, handing the phone back to Chen Gui as he passed him. He peered through the peephole after a moment, then looked back at his uncle.

“It’s Boss Tao, and he has Lin Feng with him.”

Chen Gui released his held breath in an explosive rush. “Then let them in! Lin Feng has clothes for me, and I’m hungry!”

Tokyo, Japan

Manning awoke the next morning at 7:45am, right as the Sun rose high enough to bathe the curtains over the bedroom windows in a fiery orange light. Even from the height of the 33rd floor, he heard the city of Tokyo awakening, stirring like some mythical beast preparing for the coming day’s hunt. It was murder to get up; the apartment was cool from the over-active air-conditioning, and Manning was faced with the equivalent of getting out of a warm bed on a cold winter morning. Curled up beside him like a cat was Ryoko, her small body generating an inviting warmth that Manning also found irresistible. He snuggled up to her and kissed her shoulder, and she murmured something in her sleep and stirred for a moment before becoming still again. Manning allowed his head to settle back onto his pillow, and he was content to inhale the sweet scent of her hair, now bound in a ponytail. He slipped an arm around her narrow waist and closed his eyes. Sleep harkened its return, and he felt himself start to drift into its embrace.

The image of the Japanese hostess with the bleach-blonde hair appeared before the lens of his mind’s eye before it could fully close, and she froze there, captured in every detail: carefully manicured hair, artfully painted eyebrows, somewhat thin lips covered by a sheen of lip gloss, white but slightly crooked teeth, the small beads of sweat on her upper lip, the flakes of cigarette ash clinging to her black T-shirt with the word staff emblazoned across it below the small twin mounds of her breasts… and her dark eyes, aflame with the rising panic borne from suddenly coming face-to-face with her mortality.

Manning braved the cold and swung his legs out of the bed. He walked to the zoned AC and shut it off, since the bedroom was already cold enough to safely refrigerate meat. He made his way to the bathroom and went through the morning ablutions. Afterwards, he pulled on a pair of shorts and a T-shirt and headed for the kitchen. The living room was ablaze as the sun made its gradual climb into the sky, bathing the spire of Tokyo tower and its less-commanding office building siblings in orange-yellow light. Manning grabbed himself a glass of too-sweet orange juice and paid homage to the vista. Minato-ku lurched to full wakefulness and faced the day with the traditional gusto reserved for the upper-crust parts of Tokyo, peopled by only the wealthiest of salarymen and foreign dignitaries posted at the various embassies in the area. Manning finished his juice and checked the clock on the wall. Ryoko would sleep until after two o’clock, he knew, so he was free to do whatever he wished until then.

The Atago Green Hills tower, where Manning lived, was located in a park-like setting. The verdant grounds were tended by a virtual army of Japanese landscapers who wore their gray coveralls as if they were the uniforms of some elite military unit. As Manning strolled out of the main lobby doors-the only such individual in such casual dress-the landscapers were already busy at work, trimming here, clipping there. The facility had an image to maintain, and since the tower complex was neighbored by the Atago Shrine to the north and the Seishoji temple to the south, the real estate conglomerate which owned the complex had to make it conform to the bounds of serenity dictated by the two local landmarks.