Chris Andaya wiped his prints off the straight-razor and dropped it. Fingerprint ID works if the police have yours on file. HPD had Andaya’s framed on the wall.
He jogged to Café Bon Bon. Using the café phone, he called Byung Yu.
“Ah, Mr. Andaya, how’s Mr. Alipio?”
“You can pay me.”
“Definitely. Drop by the Follies on Mon –”
“Now.”
Silence. Then, “All right.”
“I’m at Café Bon-Bon.”
Fifteen minutes later Yu and his right- and left-hand men, Richard Han and Tommy Choi, walked in, joined Andaya at a back table.
Yu nodded to Han who slid an envelope to Andaya.
“You seemed perturbed,” said Yu. “I hope taking care of Dr. Fu won’t be a problem.”
Andaya stared at Yu. “It will.”
“How so?”
At that moment a man came to the table. “Chris Andaya, dis fo Dini,” he said, pointing a pistol and firing several shots.
Andaya was quicker than Yu’s boys, who fired wildly as they dove to the floor. Andaya, upright, managed to get off one shot just as he died.
The gunman ran out and jumped into a car.
The Koreans got up and raced out the door, but Miles Kuroda was gone.
Miles looked down at the blood coming fast. He made it home, grabbed a towel, and applied pressure.
Looking at the razor he’d taken from the barber that morning, he knew he’d never learn to use it.
Out in the living room he dialed Denise Chan. Maybe she was home now.
* * * * *
Aloha #WriterWednesday, I hope you are well. Today’s #Writing Prompt is
sacrifice
Use it to inspire a piece of writing, and then post that piece on your site and link back to me, or simply leave it as a comment below. I’d love to read it : )
