Killer Chinese

Fiction in Four Parts by Robert McEvily

1



It looked like a Volkswagen Beetle had crashed through the back wall of the gallery. The damage was convincing. Perfect amounts of crushed brick and plaster. It looked like a dog had driven the car, obviously lost control, and been ejected through the windshield. The dog was bloodied, flattened; speared from head to tail with shards of glass. The artist responsible was a restaurant owner named Mark Wang. His work was called White Dogs + White Russians = A Big Red Mess. It was the most controversial piece in the exhibit.

"Wow," said a nanny, ignoring a whining brat in a stroller.

"It’s repulsive," said a man.

"What’s it mean?" asked a woman.

"I guess it’s some kind of anti-drunk driving thing," said a kid with a goatee.

"Or a joke," said Uma Thurman.

"Hey, you’re Uma Thurman," said the kid.

He stared; she walked away.

2



Meanwhile, uptown, private detective John Riordan was breaking into Wang’s apartment. Wang wasn’t there. The apartment was filled with Wang’s paintings, new and old. Wang’s lover, a stockbroker named Randall Monk, arrived a minute later. Monk wanted to know what the hell was going on.

"I’ll ask the questions," said Riordan.

"Is Mark gone?"

"Where would he be if he was?"

Monk scratched the corner of his mouth. He told the detective he hadn’t the slightest idea. "Although I remember seeing his passport at his office," he said. "And there’s this." He gestured to a phone number on a stained napkin.

"His restaurant," said Riordan, "what’s it called?"

"Killer Chinese," said Monk. "God, are you that out of it?"

The detective left.

3



Killer Chinese was formerly called "Wang’s Noodles." The place was renamed and officially fixed on the Map of Hip when Jimmy Fallon remarked to Julie Chen that "the joint" had some "killer Chinese." Overnight, literally, Wang, whose ambitions were artistic rather than culinary, was sitting on a gold mine, and hobnobbing with celebrity regulars like Fallon, Uma Thurman, Dave Chappelle, Britney Spears, and Mayor Bloomberg. A bevy of artists and wealthy entrepreneurs immediately befriended Wang and bankrolled his every whim. The Wall Street Journal called Killer Chinese "a safer and more profitable investment than Harbor Mid Cap Growth Funds." The Zagat Survey mentioned it’s "impossible to get a seat" but "always worth the wait." It continued, "The liver dumplings are incredible." It wondered about Wang’s "secret ingredient."

4



Wang was paying for his dry cleaning when Riordan crept up from behind.

"You forgot your cane, dogkiller."

Wang froze, then turned.

"What’d you call me?"

"Got your prints from your apartment elevator," said Riordan. "They match the prints on the cane. The cane you brain your dogs with."

A pause.

"Is that so?"

"That’s so, yes."

Another pause.

"What do you want? Money?"

"A confession."

Wang laughed – a short, derisive bark. "I think not," he said. He reached inside his double-breasted suit and removed a .22 caliber pistol. He shot Riordan in the forehead.

"Jesus Christ!" said the dry cleaner.

Wang handed the dry cleaner four hundred dollars.

"Dog-eat-dog world," he said.

He winked and left.