Toai Le, until he was nineteen years old lived with his mother and father partnership neighbor to the Ly family, whom was the sister to Vang’s husband, Nguyen Koea.

Grandson to Bao Koea (a syndicate boss, in Saigon, born 1918, now 82-years old), and Great Grandson to Kha’n Koea (born 1891, now 108, years old, and a boss in the Saigon syndicate). Gangsters that went back to the late forties, to the Corsican gangsters in Marseille, smuggling gold, currency and narcotics into Europe, and the United States. They both wore the ‘Per Tu Amicu Conein’ (’For our friendship, Conein’) a saying on their Napoleonic Eagle and Corsican Gold Crest, a kind of ID, to let people know they were who they were, among the world leaders in the underworld traffic, more fearsome than the Sicilians, more ruthless than even the Corsicans. The French Vietnamese, originally ruled the syndicated between the 40s and early 60s, but throughout the years, other families got into the game, and the Koea family was one of them.

Nanh and his brother An the boys of Nguyen Khoa, and mother to Vang, whose step mother was Zuxin Ho (now married to a Mr. Jong). Nanh died two years prior, by one of the hands of Pol Pot’s generals. He was clumsy, the bosses of Saigon thought, and so never asked him into the family business, but Toai Le was different, and was told he would be a boss some day if indeed he qualified, and in the mean time, he wanted him to insure the drugs, got from Saigon, to Hong Kong, to Latin America, in particular Chile, and onto Paraguay, and onward to the United States. This was the route they took. But while in Saigon, he would be his teacher (something like an understudy), he would be by his side.

The old boss, Kha’n, took a liking for the boy, a special interest you might say, one he would have likened to have taken with An, but he was too religious, and Nanh was too reckless, and their father was too involved with too many other things.

Toai Le, walked into the small restaurant with the two family bosses, and three body guards, wearing their emblems, their gold eagle insignias. The owners mind lurked, bald-headed, good natured, he put his newspaper down on the table, where he was sitting, stood up, “Good morning,” he said to each of the bosses, nodded his heads at the guards, as if to say all was ok in the restaurant, as he was always instructed to do, and greeted the young gangster, Mr. Le, as well with a smile.

This was what Nanh always wanted to do, find a way into a power base, where money lingered about, and here was Toai Le, on top of it.

Before the old boss died, Kha’n, he had a special project for Toai, and he told him partnership it had to do with Zuxin Ho, the one who left his two grandchildren off at Ly’s home, and never returned for them. He remembered they waited and waited and finally they called him, and he had to investigate, only to tell them, his step mother run off, left the country. He found this out by killing a woman called Si Manh, evidently, either Ming or Zuxin told her they were leaving the country, Cambodia; Si had evidently killed her husband who was cheating on her with Zuxin and Ming, forcefully making them his sex slaves. But first things first he told Toai Le, and of the tings he wanted him to do, was create a Trojans Horse, situation, offer a prize, and see if they fall for it, and give them a trip of a life time, follow their every footsteps, and when the time was right, do her in. If any other person was around when the time came to kill Zuxin, do them in likewise, leave no one behind, was his philosophy.

Said Kna’n, with a hunger to his eyes, “Let me taste the soup,” and the bald-headed owner, had the busboy bring out a heavy bowel of noodles and chicken, with heavy yellow broth.

The boss tasted it, said, “The noodles are too soggy, I’d not feed it to the dogs, throw it down, the whole thing down into the toilet, and flush it.”

And so the bald-headed owner (Mr. Lac) heeded what the old syndicate boss said, and told the busboy, “The soup, and the whole pot we have in the back, flush it all down the toilet!”

The busboy looked a bit apprehensive, and nodded his head ‘ok’ and went back into the kitchen, but thought upon wasting all that soup.

The old boss had looked at the busboy sternly, knew he was careless, and knew someone somewhere someday, along life’s path would have to suffer for it, and he made a check mark in his, way back in his brain, brain on the matter; and he thought ‘I eat at this place a lot, who would be the victim of this busboy’s carelessness?’

The Kitchen

The old boss knew, no man stays in power overlooking another man’s indolence, or indifference, or unprofessional work. Matter-of-fact, the reason he made it to the ripe old age of 108, and his son 82, was because they never did overlook a thing. And his son was faithful to him everyday of the year. Otherwise he would have had him killed long ago.

Boa, asked the waitress, “What time doses the busboy go to lunch?”

“At 12:30 sir.” She replied.

“Let me know when he does take his lunch, I’ll be here.”

He also partnership her to keep this request quiet, keep it a secret between him and her, and not even tell her boss Mr. Lac should he ask. And she reconfirmed twice, it would be so.

The two bosses, and Le, ate fish, and rice, with some vegetables, as the three bodyguards, guarded the premise, one at the door, one outside the door, the other by Kha’n’s side, and Toai Le, sitting on the opposite side of Kha’n.

“You are my henchman,” said Bao, to Le, then corrected himself, “our henchman; have you ever seen a cockfight?” He asked.

“No,” answered Le.

“You will have, within the near future,” responded Bao.

Next, the waitress appeared outside the swinging doors that led into the kitchen, she nodded her head, as if to say, ‘He’s at lunch, in the kitchen eating, the busboy.”

The three at the table sitting down, now stood up, and walked forward, with the brute of a bodyguard following close behind. The guard just inside of the door, put a sign up, closed for the next hour.

They all walked into the kitchen area.

Over in a corner was the young lad with a bowel of soup, chop sticks in hand, long noodles being sucked into the inside of his mouth. He paid them no attention, as Mr. Lac approached.

The owner leaned against a post, one that held the tin roof in place, as Bao said, “I thought my father told you to throw the soup away?”

The owner really hadn’t noticed the boy eating, not until this very moment, and then saw the bowl soup in his hands. His lips started to tremble, as the boy continued unabashed of what was taking place.

The boy just kept sucking those noodles from the plate to his mouth, and the more he sucked, the angrier Bao and Kha’n got, you could hear it, the long slurping sounds.

“Evidently,” said Bao, “the boy does not know who we are, and you have not even noticed what he is doing. If you were in our Army, this would be negligence, if not treason. And the bodyguard, at Bao’s request, told Lac to shoot the boy: now the boy heard this, eyes wide open like an owls, “You got three seconds to pull the trigger,” said Boa, and he did, he shot the boy in the shoulder, and the bodyguard pulled out a second gun, and finished the job.

It all was not over, the bodyguard, grabbed the hand of the restaurant owner, and with one slice of the butcher knife, that was being used to cut fish, off came four fingers from his left-hand.

“We got to get rid of what is not productive, what is not worth cultivating, human trash.” Said the old man, the boss, and they walked out onto the street.

See Dennis’ web site: http://dennissiluk.tripod.com

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