Find Big Fat Fanny Fast (14 page)

So buying out the stupid Italians had served several purposes for the Chinese in Chinatown. They had gotten rid of the Dago slime, and as a result, they had filled the apartments for three hundred bucks a pop and more, making their real estate investment quite profitable after only a few years, even though they had grossly overpaid for the buildings in the first place.

And most importantly to the old-timers, they gained control of the ball field in Columbus Park. Screw those Dagos where they breathe.

As for the tenements in the neighborhood still owned by Italians, the landlords were now stuck with a losing investment. They either had to sell to the Chinese at bargain basement prices, or stick it out and hope their buildings burned to the ground, so that they could collect the insurance money.

Some buildings actually, but never accidentally did.

Now why should Hung Far Low care about the death of a mere gambler like Norman Chung? In Chinatown, even the Chinese people didn't like Norman too much. In fact, it was quite possible, Norman's own mother wasn't too crazy about him either. Norman was surly, unfriendly, disrespectful and for those who cared about these type of things, downright freaking ugly.

Yet, Norman Chung could do something most other Chinese men could not do; shoot a gun reasonable straight. Norman was not the greatest shot by any stretch of the imagination. In fact, he was a pretty lousy shot by any measure. But at least Norman shot in the general direction of the people he was supposed to be shooting at. And sometimes, maybe by luck, he even hit the person the bullet was intended for in the first place.

Bravo for Norman!

This was not the case with 99 percent of the other Chinese shooters on the Planet Earth.

Most of the Chinese gangs employed kids right off the illegal boats from China. As an initiation into the gangs, these morons had to perform hits; kill people whom the bosses said needed to be dead.

Some hits were performed on crowded Chinatown Streets, but most were in Chinese restaurants, where those illegal fools would barge in, flailing away with their nines. They'd shoot paying customers, cooks, waiters, a few Peking Ducks, and sometimes, by luck, even the guy they intended to shoot in the first place. But this did not happen too often and the collateral damage was severe for all Chinese businesses in Chinatown.

Yet this was not the M.O. of Norman Chung, who Hung Far Low secretly used to eliminate the opposition, or anyone else who disrespected his gambling, drug dealing, or illegal immigrant smuggling operations. When he wanted someone to die, Hung Far Low trusted Norman Chung to do the right thing without messing up too much of the furniture. Norman would follow his prey, sometimes for days, and always do the dirty deed where there was no innocent victims, and more importantly, no witnesses.

Now Norman Chung was dead and Hung Far Low was out his best henchman, a killer nobody even knew worked for Hung Far Low in the first place.

Hung Far Low was now awaiting the arrival of the second best man in his operation, Yuan Dum Fuk, who wasn't a great shooter either. But he made up for that fact by handing a knife pretty damn good. And with a knife, you can only kill one person at a time, which in Chinatown, was a good thing indeed for the local businesses, especially the restaurants.

Hung Far Low was half way though his Chicken Chop Suey when Yuan Dum Fuk walked through the front door of the coffee shop..

“Have a seat,” Hung Far Low said.

Yuan Dum Fuk took a seat on the opposite side of the table from Hung Far Low.

To say that Yuan Dum Fuk was thin, was like saying water was wet. He wore the traditional all- black outfit worn by Chinese gangsters, right down to the waist-length, zippered, black leather jacket. His face was rodent-like and covered with so many pimples, it looked like a connect-the-dots worksheet.

“I have a job I need for you to do,” Hung Far Low said.

“You mean 'a piece of work'?” said Yuan Dum Fuk.

Spit and Chop Suey flew from Hung Far Low's mouth, spraying the table and Yuan Dum Fuk's face and chest. “What are you? A Wop all of a sudden?”

Yuan Dum Fuk wiped his face with a napkin. Then bowed his head. “No shu ling. I am Chinese. First and foremost. Always Chinese.”

“Then cut out the 'piece of work' crap. Speak like a Chinaman, for Budda's sake.”

“OK shu ling.”

“And cut out the 'shu ling' crap too. We're here in America. You can just call me 'boss'.”

“Yes boss.”

The waiter arrived with a tray filled with a dozen egg rolls. He placed the tray in front of Hung Far Low.

Hung Far Low eliminated the first two eggs rolls with only four bites. He spoke with his mouth full, causing bits of the egg rolls to dot Yuan Dum Fuk's chest. “I need Billy the Blade to disappear.”

Yuan Dum Fuk's eyes bulged from his emaciated face. He bent forward and whispered, “You want me to kill
lo fan
?”

Four more bites and two more egg rolls went bye-bye down Hung Far Low's gullet. He belched twice, then said, “You have a problem with that?”

“No boss, but may I humbly ask why?”

“No, you may not humbly ask why. I've always operated on a need-to-know basis, and you no need to fucking know.”

Four more bites and two more egg rolls went sayonara into Hung Far Low's belly. “Now go and don't let me see your face again until Billy the Blade is no more.”

“How do you wish me to do this?” Yuan Dum Fuk said.

“With anything but a gun,” Hu
ng Far Low said. “You have the disease of the Chinese. If you use a gun, you have as good a chance of shooting yourself in the balls, as you do of shooting Billy the Blade.”
    The front door of the coffee shop opened and a beautiful Chinese girl entered.
Just turning eighteen years of age, Lilly Low stood tall, broad and buxom, unlike the past generations of Chinese women who were flat as a board and looked like teenage boys. Her black almond eyes seemed to sparkle and her red pouting lips pointed upward, bringing her chin up with them.

She sashayed over to Hung Far Low's table. “Hello father.”

Yuan Dum Fuk jumped up to attention, while Hung Far Low quickly devoured two more eggs rolls.

“This young gentleman was just leaving,” Hung Far Low said to his daughter. He waved his hand at Yuan Dum Fuk in dismissal.

Yuan Dum Fuk bowed to his boss, then to Lily. He did a military about-face and exited the coffee shop.

Lily sat down opposite her father.

“Would you like an egg roll?” he said, pointing at the tray with only four egg rolls left.

Lily shook her head. “How many did you eat already? I see four left. So you either ordered a half a dozen egg rolls and just started, or more likely, you ordered a baker's dozen.”

Hung Far Low bowed his head. “Straight dozen. Chinese restaurants no give extra egg roll to nobody.”

Lily scanned the coffee shop. She spotted the waiter and signaled for him to come to the table.

“Take these four eggs rolls away right now,” she told the waiter. “My father has eaten enough already.”

The waiter grabbed the tray and Hung Far Low grabbed the waiter's arm. “Put them in a doggie container. I will take them with me.”

Lily's face hardened. “If you don't stop this gluttony, your heart will explode. The doctor has told you many times, you need to drop at least a hundred pounds.”

Hung Far Low took a sip of coffee. “To do that, my dear daughter, I will surely have to cut off both my legs.”

“You're probably right. But please don't eat like that in front of me. I don't have to watch you slowly gorging yourself to death. Mother is already with God. I don't want to be left all alone in this world.”

“Don't worry. I'm going on a diet soon. They call it the new Atkins diet. I can eat all the meat, chicken and fish I like. Bacon and eggs too. And I can drink all alcoholic beverages, except beer. How's that for a diet?”

“Fine, if you're an American. But no lo mein noodles, or even rice noodles for you. And no fried rice. In fact, you can't eat white rice either. No dumplings. And no egg rolls. That's for sure.”

Hung Far Low shook his head. “Don't discourage me before I even start. But I can have soup. Lots of soup. Egg drop. Hot and sour soup. But no wonton soup, because of the dumplings.”

“Hot and sour soup has dumplings too.”

“So I'll give the dumplings to the dog.”

“We don't have a dog.”

“So, we'll get a dog. A big dog. The dog will help me to stay on my diet.”

She smiled. “Then the dog will get fat like you.”

“Then we'll get two dogs. One to get fat and the other to stay skinny.”

She reached across the table and grabbed her father's hand. “Oh father, you worry me so much. One dog will be enough. I'll start searching for one today. Maybe a nice German Shepard. Like Rin Tin Tin on TV.”

“That would be nice.”

“In fact, you can get a lot of exercise walking the dog. It would be good for you in so many ways.”

Hung Far Low shook his head. “The dog walking part is no good. A man of my exalted status cannot be seen walking a dog in public.”

“Ok, so I'll walk the dog. As long as you stay on your diet. But if I so much as see you look at an egg roll, I'll make the dog do his nasty stuff in the apartment, on your favorite Chinese newspaper.”

“Agreed. I'll start on the Atkins diet tomorrow morning.”

She snapped her fingers for the waiter. “No, you start on your diet right now.”

The waiter arrived and put the Chinese container holding egg rolls on the table.

Lily told her father, “Those four egg rolls, I'll take them with me now.”

“Can't I just have one more big Chinese meal, before I go cold turkey on this diet?”

“No. But you can eat cold turkey
on
this diet. I'll cook you the turkey myself. In fact, from now on, you eat all your meals at home. And I'll do all the cooking.”

Hung Far Low sighed. “The die is cast. I hope after a few weeks on this diet, I don't want to die myself.”

CHAPTER 14

Crappy

Charlie “Crappy” Crappola sat alone at his favorite table at Forlini's Restaurant, on Baxter Street, fifty feet south of Canal Street. Forlini's is right around the corner from New York City criminal courts buildings and down the block from the city prison, called “The Tombs.”

In the last generation, there had been a mass exodus of neighborhood Italians to places like Brooklyn, Queens, Long Island, Staten Island, and unfortunately Rikers Island and other prisons located in the continental United States. Not to mention various graves, some in cemeteries and some in places unknown; beneath the ground, in various rivers and streams, or compacted in cars. Such is life.

Forlini's clientele now consisted almost entirely of people associated with the criminal courts buildings in the immediate neighborhood. Ninety percent of Forlini's customers are judges, lawyers, district attorneys, court officers, court workers and what Crappy called rat-bastard cops. Wiseguys and their associates avoided Forlini's like the plague, not wanting to be under the same roof with those whose life's mission was to put them permanently in prison.

Crappy's table was next to the cash register, to the immediate left of the restaurant entrance. From this vantage point he could see everyone as they entered, before they could see him. Which just might one day save Crappy's life.

Baxter Street is one block west of Mulberry, where all the wiseguys hang out to discuss whose legs deserved to be broken and whom they should soon make disappear off the face of the earth. Be that as it may, Forlini's was the perfect place for Crappy to meet someone in “the life” without the treacherous scumbags around the corner knowing anything about it.

As for the menu, Forlini's was famous for its fine Chicken Gropallo
—
chicken with artichoke hearts, sun-dried tomatoes, black olives, mushrooms, and white wine sauce, served on top of fettuccine; the people's favorite Scarparelli, for one or for two — diced chicken, sausage, filet mignon, bell peppers, mushrooms, scallions, garlic and white wine sauce. And the immortal Involtini di Gamberi — rolled shrimp, stuffed with prosciutto, cheese and mushrooms and white wine sauce.

Crappy, who weighed somewhere in the neighborhood of four hundred pounds, had just ordered all three of Forlini's specialty dishes as his main course, after first knocking down two Hot
Antipasto
platters of clams, shrimps, stuffed mushrooms,
sautéed
eggplant and artichoke hearts arreganata.

Of course, all three main courses came with either a side of spaghetti, or a side of escarole. Crappy, daintily watching his weight, had opted for only two side orders of spaghetti and one side of escarole, not to be a pig.

The busboy removed the finished hot antipasto plates, as the waiter refilled Crappy's wine class with red vino from a large carafe of the house red, which was just fine indeed for Crappy and a hell of a lot cheaper than the wines Forlini's served in bottles.

Minutes later, just as the waiter was placing the three main courses on the table, Crappy noticed Skinny Benny slide though the front door of the restaurant. Skinny Benny spotted Crappy and Crappy waved him over to the table.