Page 80 of Reaper
"I know why you are here," she says, her sharp eyes moving from Adriana to me. "I know who you want to talk to. I will make a phone call."
I turn to Adriana, unable to hide my confusion. "How the hell can she know that? We didn't tell her anything specific."
Those cutting eyes shift to me, and I see exactly why this tiny woman commands respect in a world full of killers. "I didn't get to where I am by being a fool, Mr. DeMarco. The Russians cost some people I know a great deal of money recently. Word travels fast when someone disrupts carefully laid plans."
Tank shifts in his chair, the ornate wooden frame creaking under his weight. "While we're waiting for you to make that call," he says, his gruff voice cutting through the tension, "you got any pastries we could grab? All this talking's got me hungry."
Madam Lin's severe expression softens slightly, and for the first time since we walked in, she looks almost pleased. "Ah, you have good taste. We have many varieties — dan tat, of course, and our egg tarts are made fresh every morning. Sesame balls with red bean paste, almond cookies, pineapple buns, lotus seed cakes, and my personal favorite, wife cakes with winter melon filling."
Tank's entire demeanor transforms. His eyes light up like a kid on Christmas morning, and he actually rubs his hands together. "Holy shit — pardon me, ma’am, I mean, holy crap. You’ve got all that here? Fresh?"
I feel my pulse quicken at the mention of those pastries. The technical precision required for proper dan tat, the way the custard has to set just right, the perfect lamination for pineapple bun dough — it's been weeks and weeks since I've had time to work on anything that delicate.
"The lotus seed cakes," I hear myself saying, "do you make those with the traditional mold patterns? And the wife cakes —that's a tricky pastry. Getting the layers right without the filling bleeding through..."
Madam Lin's eyebrows rise, genuine surprise replacing her calculated politeness. "You know baking?"
Tank lets out a bark of laughter. "Know baking? I taught him everything he knows, and I’m proud to say this bastard's got hands like a French pastry chef when he wants to. Makes a danish that'll make you weep."
"It's just chemistry," I mutter, feeling heat creep up my neck. "Ratios and timing."
But Madam Lin is already moving, calling out in rapid Mandarin to someone beyond the door. Within minutes, a young woman appears carrying an elaborate tea service and a tiered tray loaded with pastries that look like they belong in a high-end bakery window.
The egg tarts are perfect golden domes, their custard centers still slightly wobbly. The sesame balls glisten with oil, their surfaces crackling to reveal the dark sweetness within. And those wife cakes — fucking hell, the spiral pattern on top is so precise it looks machine-made.
Tank doesn't wait for ceremony. He grabs an egg tart and bites into it, closing his eyes as he chews. "Jesus fucking Christ," he mumbles around the pastry. "That's the real deal."
I pick up one of the lotus seed cakes, examining the intricate mold work before taking a bite. The paste is smooth, not too sweet, with that distinctive earthy flavor that's impossible to fake. "This is restaurant quality," I tell Madam Lin. "Who's your baker?"
"My friend’s grandson," she says with obvious pride. "He studied in Shanghai.” Madam Lin sets down her own teacup and straightens her jacket. "I will make the call now. Please enjoy the tea and pastries while you wait."
She glides out of the room with practiced grace, leaving us alone with what might be the best spread of Chinese pastries I've seen outside of a professional kitchen.
Tank immediately reaches for another egg tart. "Look at the way these are glazed," he says, holding it up to the light. "See how even that golden color is? That's temperature control right there. Too hot and you get bubbling; too cool and it never sets properly."
I nod, picking up one of the sesame balls. The exterior crackles perfectly under gentle pressure. "And these — getting the dough consistency right so it doesn't split when the sesame seeds expand during frying. That's technique."
"The oil temperature has to be just right," Tank continues, warming to the subject. "Start too hot and the outside burns before the inside cooks through."
Meanwhile, Mayhem and Diesel have abandoned all pretense of civilized eating. Diesel stuffs an entire almond cookie in his mouth, crumbs scattering across his shirt, while Mayhem savagely devours a pineapple bun like he's conducting demolition rather than eating pastry.
"Jesus, you two," Tank mutters. "These aren't fucking prison rations."
Mayhem shrugs and reaches for a wife cake. "It shows how much I appreciate it by me being so motivated to shove as much of it in my mouth as humanly possible. Plus, this shit is delicious."
Adriana sits back in her chair, teacup balanced perfectly in her hands, watching our pastry discussion with an expression caught between amusement and bewilderment. "You realize we're here to arrange a meeting with killers, not critique baking techniques?"
"Multi-tasking," I say, examining the spiral pattern on a wife cake. "Besides, good pastry is good pastry. It doesn’t matter where you find it."
She shakes her head, but I catch the slight smile tugging at the corner of her mouth.
Tank launches into an explanation of proper lamination techniques while Diesel and Mayhem continue their assault on the pastry tray. The normalcy of it — talking shop about baking while sitting in a Triad-run mahjong parlor — strikes me as both absurd and somehow comforting.
Madam Lin returns about ten minutes later, her expression unreadable. "It is arranged," she announces. "But you cannot stay here. Transportation is coming to take you to the proper location."
"Transportation?" Adriana asks.
"You will wait outside. Five minutes."
