Excerpt
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. 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.

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.