88° North. J.F. Kirwan

old man paused, then turned around. ‘Find the Judge. Demand ritual combat for the White Tiger triad. Tell him I sent you.’

      The Chef rolled it around in his mind. If he challenged Blue Fan to ritual combat, it was her right to choose the weapon, and she would select knives, the one weapon he had never been taught. His Sifu, the man standing in front of him, had refused to teach him knife unless he agreed to remain in Hong Kong. There was one more thing he needed to know.

      ‘Who trained her in the knife fighting form?’

      The old man beamed. ‘We Chinese seek longevity. You Westerners like to live fast and die young, while your gonads are still full of fire.’ His eyes softened. ‘You could have been so much more if you had remained here. Goodbye, Chu Shi.’

      The Chef stayed while the sky darkened and night closed in, immersing him in a cacophony of traffic, horns, and the squawks of chattering starlings seeking somewhere to sleep amidst the brightening neon. Many years ago, his master had given him his nickname. In Cantonese it meant head chef, or boss. His Sifu