The survivor

Eleven

Every one of Red Mask’s senses felt warped.

He marched eastward along Pender, moving deeper into Chinatown. He’d abandoned the Lexus long ago. It was no longer a concern. His entire focus was the pain in his shoulder. It pulsated, moving through his body like long jellyfish tendrils. Already it had forced him from consciousness once. Much time had been lost because of it.

He could not afford for this to happen again.

The Fortune Happy Restaurant sat in the heart of Chinatown. Its dirty gold awning was splattered with blood-red lettering. The location had been chosen by Kim Pham, not for its size or layout, but for its address.

Number 426. This was very important.

Red Mask pushed through the front doors, smearing blood across the pane. Inside, the smell of ginger crab and black bean sauce hit him. It made his stomach contents rise, and he fought them down.

Seated patrons gawked as he struggled by into the kitchen area. Behind him, the mutters of anxious customers arose. A high-pitched clatter, like frightened birds. Yet in the kitchen, no one — not the chef, not the waitresses — so much as flinched or made eye-contact.

It was as if he were a ghost.

At the rear of the kitchen was the black door. Red Mask pushed through it. Almost immediately the smell of whisky found him. Mah-jong tiles rattled loudly, sounding like marbles dropping on granite. And there was cigar smoke, too. Thick and heavy.

Red Mask scanned the room. In the far corner, Kim Pham, ever the gracious host, was offering fine whiskies to the clientele. He was thirty, and dressed as he always was — in a white suit, with a white shirt, black tie, and a pair of gold wraparound sunglasses on his head. His oily black hair had blond tips.

When Kim Pham looked up, his eyes darkened. ‘Fuck, fuck, fuck!’ He grabbed two of his men. ‘Get him downstairs — and call the doctor. Be quick!’

Two men, dressed in suits as yellow as egg yolks, wrapped their arms around Red Mask’s waist and guided him with force towards the stairwell, which quickly descended into a long, dark tunnel.

Down, down, down they went.

And Red Mask let them sweep him away. His head was empty and light — a balloon rising out of reach. He was floating now. Floating far away. To that dark and horrible place where not even the spirits could reach him.