Participants:
| Scene Title | Always a Bigger Fish |
|---|---|
| Synopsis | The Triad tries to put the squeeze on a roundeyes working their turf. |
| Date | February 22, 2011 |
Oh, Chinatown.
Every day the same deal. Despite the bomb, despite all the bombings, all the riots, the eighth, everything that has happened has yet to deter Chinatown from changing. Crowds still amass on the sidewalks, the throngs milling relentlessly from this street to that street. As always vendors on the street hawk their wares, entertainers try to bring in a couple extra dollars for their special talents. A few women doing the same with their very different talents.
Daryl stands over a small blanket a few things tossed onto it. Mostly stolen items or fakes that he bought from someone else. All par for the course in Chinatown. A few people glance over shoulders at Daryl's selection, and every now and then someone makes a purchase.
The afternoon is cloudy, not a whole lot of light being shed on the borough. Across the street in the cover of an alley a group of young Chinese men huddle around as if making some kind of less legal transaction.
It's not really his first choice of how to go about things; he likes watching crowds, mingling with them, not so much working them as a solo act. But the pawn shops have been a little slow lately… and, in light of a recent argument, Daryl has decided to liquidate as much as he can. With a healthy pile of cash in hand, any number of options begin to open up.
Every so often, he spares a glance for the group of natives on the other side of the block. Not that he cares that much what they're up to, he just wants some advance warning in case anyone seems to be paying them an undue amount of attention. You never know who might be a plainclothes cop looking to gild their reputation.
The crowd eventually breaks up, forming on the sidewalk across the street. There is a pause of the rush of cars, the small gang of natives move across the street at a leisurely pace. It's about six men in all. Four younger looking and more roughly dressed gangsters move on the side of two obviously higher ups in the food chain. Moving onto Daryl's side of the street, the two men in the center hang around in the back. Immaculately dressed the two are known in the gang world as the Bu xiu or the immortals. The twins stand in a grand juxtaposition, one with his arms over his chest, the other with his hands in his pockets.
The black suited Dong-tian and white-suited Xue watch as their younger compatriots crowd around Daryl's wares. One of the triad bending to the blanket to help himself to one of Daryl's items for sale. Picking it up, he waves the small iPod to the other Ghost Shadows, murmuring excitedly in Cantonese.
Oh, now that could be good or bad. Probably a little of both— but at least these guys are likely to have their own chunks of money to wave around, should they so choose. "You like that, huh?" says Daryl, lips quirking up in a decent approximation of a salesman's perma-smile. "It was a Christmas present for my aunt— she got two of them, and we missed the return deadline by, like, two hours. For you, a hundred bucks even."
Dong-tian tilts his head to the side, his eyes behind the sunglasses going to match his twin brothers gaze for a moment. A crisp command is given in Chinese. The particular gang member with the iPod slips it into his pocket, before taking a step back. His gaze raising up to Daryl challenging.
But before the young man can call the cops or even cry foul, another command comes from the finely dressed triad. "Daryl." The light Chinese accent comes from Dong-tian, one hand coming up to beckon the boy towards him. "Come here." He commands crisply. The other men fanning out and circling Daryl and his wares. Those that had been gathering are now rapidly moving on. Those native to Chinatown know not to rubberneck when the Triad are involved.
He's sure as hell not calling the cops; he has plenty to lose from their attention, while this gang can just melt into the crowd. And if they're armed— well. If they're armed, then he's probably already screwed no matter what he does. C'mon, he's small-time, why are they even bothering with him? And how's the suit know his name? "What?" he asks, taking a step forward, even as he mentally plans out which direction to make a run for it if things get any worse.
Dong-tian stretches out one hand, his palm splaying out. "You haven't paid your protection fees." The man indicates quietly. The rest of the Ghost Shadow watching the man quietly. Dong-tian's brows narrow some as he watches the boy. Otherwise his features remain emotionless, head tilting to the side some.
"That wad you just collected should be enough." The Enforcer informs matter-of-factly. Waiting politely for his protection fee.
That? Would be things getting worse. If they'd asked for a quarter, he'd have handed it over without a second thought, albeit with some grumbling. Even half, he might have gone along with, just to play it safe. But cleaning him out?
Fuck that noise.
Reaching into his pocket, Daryl makes as if he's about to give in— only to suddenly disappear from sight. A split second later, he's running for it, turning one shoulder sideways as he attempts to slip between two of the goons. The stuff still laid out on the blanket is abandoned, of necessity; if it hasn't moved by now, then it wasn't worth that much anyway. The cash in his pocket is worth a lot more.
One of the junior members starts to take off after Daryl's splitting the eye of the needle, one foot leading off on the rush.
"Deng yixia"
Dong-tian lets out quietly, causing the man to stop immediately. A grin grows up Dong-tian's lips, motioning to the other men. "Remember his face." He lets out, before letting out a light laugh. "He doesn't work in Chinatown unless he works for us." The man mandates, gesturing towards the goods Daryl was selling. The gang starts to go collect all of Daryl's abandoned shit.
A couple blocks away, Daryl cuts into an alley and bends over, hands on knees, fading back into view as the adrenaline rush subsides. Glancing out to the street, he ducks back into the crowd, making a beeline north. Well, scratch one neighborhood, he thinks to himself. At least until somebody fucks those assholes up, permanent-like. They'll probably shoot first if they see him again, and his bravado doesn't extend nearly so far as to think he could take them down on his own. Maybe one of them.
Question is, is there anyone else that he can talk into doing the dirty work?
