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[b]Chinatown
2009[/b]


Slam Bradley rode shotgun in the unmarked car. Captain Grogan sped through the city at "fuck traffic laws I'm a cop" speed. Slam smoked and saw the sights. Open-air drug markets. Fiends scuttling across streets like cockroaches. Hookers peddled their stuff by the curb. Corner boys trading blowjobs for blow. Slam cracked the window, blew smoke. 

Slam smiled. He felt alive. He felt jazzed. Grogan's squad worked the streets. [i]They[/i] ran the streets. They were the landlords out here, and everybody paid their rent or they got hit. Two-Gun Jack was a hick from somewhere out west, Oklahoma or Texas or something, and he had that southern twang prairie accent. The hump wore two six-shooters on both hips, the hump wore shit-kicker boots and a white stetson with a goddamn bolo tie. He chewed tobacco and thought he was Jonah Hex reincarnated. He looked like a clown on the surface. Beneath it, he was all killer. 

Grogan spat tobacco juice in a coffee cup. He wiped his mouth and said, "Samuel, how you been liking these past six months?"

Slam beamed. "Fantastic. Anything to get me out of Gotham Central and Vice."

Vice straight bored him. It was either hooker rousts or gambling busts. He was too well known around Gotham to work undercover. Vice required him to roust prosties and break bookies. It was straight shit-work. His brain was wired for the street. He needed to be out here in the thick of it. This was his element. Grogan picked him because he was big and intimidating. The captain promised muscle work and he made good on the promise. Anybody he wanted worked over Slam worked. Fist work, brass knucks work, rubber hose work, followed by dental and surgical work.

Slam flicked his cigarette out a window. The butt hit a passing wino in the forehead. The wino flipped it away and shook his fist at the car. Slam laughed. Gorgan roared.

The GCPD car rolled through Chinatown. They met up with Detectives Tommy Burke and Mal Harris. They piled back into the car. Slam drove and Grogan rode shotgun. Burke and Harris sat in the back. They were headed to a Tong summit to act as muscle. One Tong family swore vengeance on another Tong family. A Chinatown war loomed on the horizon. It defied Grogan's mandate for the mobster squad. They kept the peace at all costs. 

The convoy pulled up to a fish factory. They got out with pump-action shotguns and automatic pistols. Slam had his big .45 in his hand.  Grogan wore two six-shooters on his belt. Grogan stuck a plug of tobacco in his mouth and strutted into the factory with a bullhorn in his hands. The factory floor: Wall to wall to Chinese men yelling in their heathen language. Six Nation Tong on one side in red, the Yellow Dragon Tong on one side in yellow. They jabbered at each other, flashed knives and guns and threatened to go to war right then and there.

Two-Gun Jack held the bullhorn to his mouth. His voice amplified across the din. The bullhorn made it screech weird. Grogan's voice sounded inhuman. Slam realized he was speaking Chinese. The Okie fuck gave the Tongs the spiel in fluent Mandarin. The speech: Calm down right now or we will send in the riot squad and bash all your heathen brains in.

The panic subsided. Grogan grinned. He motioned the rest of the squad to flank out. They covered exits and corners with their guns. Grogan and Slam walked towards a card table in the middle of the mob. Fat Ricky Fat of the Six Nation sat on an opposite side from Hau Song and the Yellow Dragons. A third chair for Grogan sat between them. Two-Gun Jack sprawled into the chair. Slam stood behind him as muscle. Hundreds of eyes fell on Slam. He winked en masse to the crowd.

The negotiations began. The two old men spoke through Grogan. They talked to him and he talked to the other. All eyes fell on the negotiations. No noise from the crowd. You could hear a pin drop. Ricky Fat said something in his gobbledygook. He pounded the card table. A buzz filtered through the crowd. Ricky Fat made the throat slash sign. 

Hau Song shook his head and rattled off gibberish. Grogan held both hands up. He talked, talked, talked in their tongue. He pointed to both men. He expounded on some theory that made both men's heads nod. He finished. They both agreed. The crowd clapped. Wolf-whistles broke out. 

Grogan got up smiling. He pulled Slam close. Slam could smell his tobacco breath as he whispered in his ear. "I give you peace. Peace for our time, son. Go find Burke. We've got some more work to do."

--

Burke drove and Slam rode shotgun. Grogan and the head of Six Nation Tong sat in the back. Fat Ricky Fat spoke in Chinese to Grogan, Grogan gave it right back. They laughed. Slam looked in the rearview mirror. He saw a pistol and hatchet in Ricky Fat's lap.

Grogan switched to English. He said, "GCPD caught a dead body two days ago. A Chinese girl stabbed to death in a Chinatown motel room. The victim was Ricky Fat's niece. Her murderer is Yellow Dragon. Some punk she was fucking is the fiend. He saw her with some Six Nation boys and got jealous and stabbed her sixteen times. A real Romeo and Juliet story. I learned all this at our summit just a few moments earlier. Knowing Homicide like I do, they will give the killing a cursory investigation and drop it. If it's not white, they don't care. This degenerate who killed Ricky Fat's niece has tarnished his family honor. Old world customs dictate that he must regain that honor with vigorous bloodletting."

Slam saw the hatchet blade glint in the sparse light. Ricky Fat held it up swung it around the backseat gracefully. Grogan laughed. Grogan said, "To advert full on war, Yellow Dragon has agreed that this heinous crime must be avenged. Take a left here, Thomas."

Burke pulled up to an apartment. They got out. Slam and Burke walked point, Grogan and Ricky Fat behind them. They hit the fourth floor. Apartment six. Slam had his .45 out, Burke gripped his nine mil. Grogan pulled his six-shooters. Ricky Fat had a hatchet in one hand, his pistol in the other. 

Grogan said, "Go!"

Burke kicked the door. Once, twice, three times. It snapped on the third kick. It fell to the floor. They walked over it. They walked in on five Chinese junkies geezing up on Big H. Slam and Burke aimed at the same man. They blew holes through his chest. Two-Gun Jack opened fire with both six-shooters. He turned two men into swiss cheese. Six shots a piece center mass. Ricky Fat charged the one man left alive. He screeched something in Chinese and hacked at the man with his hatchet. The man screamed and fell to the floor. Ricky Fat kept hacking. Grogan nodded, he spun his guns like a cowboy and holstered them. Burke went green. Slam holstered his piece. Grogan put a hand on his shoulder and lead him and Burke out.

"Let Ricky Fat have his fun. We need to talk since we have a moment."

Grogan spat tobacco on the floor and shook his head. He talked over Ricky Fat's screams/the killer's moans. 

"Tonight's your last night working with me for some time, boys. I did what I could, but you both gotta pay something for that mess with the drug dealer from last month. Thomas, you're going to the Eastern District flexsquad to work drugs. Samuel, they're packing you to Homicide. It's supposed to be temporary. How long it'll last, we'll see."

More screaming inside. Choked and phlegm filled death rattle. Blood ran out the door and pooled at their shoes. Burke dry-heaved. Slam saw a severed eyeball float by.