Richie Minor's hand rested on his friend's shoulder. He was pointing at a noodle stand. Not very big, white with 'Chunky Lee's Noodles' scrawled in crude red letters. Behind the little stand stood a short, chinese guy was a beer gut hanging over the front of his pants, under his stained white apron. He was surrounded by an audience of rusty pots and pans, a hot plate, and a bunch of burners. He was tossing vegetables and rice around in one of the pans with a spatula.

"That Ray," Richie said, "is Chunky Lee's noodle stand. They make one hell of a stir fry, I'll take ya to eat there one day when I got more'n eighteen bucks in my pocket. But listen, I know you're a mean mother fucker'n all, but watch yourself around those cats you see walkin around in the blue pajamas,I talked shit to one of those guys once and they drug me into that alley over there and wailed on me with bats. Cracked three ribs and gave me headaches for about three months. Pack of mean sons of bitches, those Triads."

Ray looked around him at the bustling day to day life of Chinatown. The streets were crammed with people going this way and that, here and there. Men, women, adults, kids, and people of many different nationalities, though mostly Chinese. The particular spot where Ray and Richie were was set off from the street, no cars allowed on the neat maroon colored cobblestone. Several neat little mom and pop shops were scattered over the large plus sign that the area formed, supplemented by some big city hot dog vendors and noodle stands.

It was a little odd being in Liberty City as the exact opposite of what he was before he'd left. He'd once been a cop in the 37th precinct of the LCPD. He started out as your typical young guy just having fun being a cop. But he kept finding that more and more of his fellow cops were just as crooked as the muggers and gang bangers that he collared on a daily basis. He tried to stay away from it, but gradually they drew him in. He couldn't stop himself from skimming a few thousand off the top whenever they busted a dope deal, or snagging a couple keys of coke to sell for himself. He found himself in a better apartment, driving a better car, and receiving more respect. Fuck that Serpico stuff, that was all bullshit. There's no way a cop can actually resist joining in on the racket. Then he met Richie. He'd jacked a car and Ray pulled him over. They hit it off as soon as Richie realized that Ray was bent. After that, they hung out together a lot and Richie acted as an informer, telling Ray where dope deals were going down. Things went real well for awhile until somebody, Ray never knew how, found coke in his desk. Without waiting around for him to be tried, he ran to Detroit and had his name illegally changed to Carlo. Under his new identity, he was arrested for attempting to rob a bank and served forty-seven months in jail. Now it was 1995, and he was out of jail. He hooked up with the only contact he could think of, Richie.

The guys in the blue 'pajamas' were scattered throughout the crowd, their actual outfit being a blue jumpsuit with a fish factory logo sewn onto the right breast. They weren't very inconspicuous, any fool could tell they had baseball bats crammed into the inside pockets of those suits. Ray looked back at Richie, looking over a pair of opaque aviators.

"You still come around here after they rough you up?"

"Ah fuck man, they may be some cold blooded cats but they're dumber'n a box of rocks. You think, out of all these people, those slanty eyed fucks are gonna recognize my smiling face? Plus the food around here's too good to ignore."

Ray disagreed, he figured they probably stuck out in a crowd. Ray was dressed in a brown business suit with vertical pin strips going up and down his heavy-set form, the lady at the clothes store had told him it gave the wardrobe a slimming effect. His head of dark brown hair, specks of gray dotting his temples, was slicked back across his scalp neatly. Richie, on the other hand, wasn't as composed. He wore a worn leather jacket, starting to get tanned by dust ground into the material. His mop of dusty black hair was a little unkempt. He was a tall and a fairly skinny guy, not very threatening at first glance. Ray had a deep, raspy and loud voice. Richie had a fading New York accent that could get a little obnoxious at times. The two of them were just sitting around talking, while everyone else shuffled around busily, with things to do and places to be.

"Rich man, let's get outta here. I don't like bein around all these people. I say we go back to your place, discuss this little business venture you talked about." Ray said.

"Oh, so now you're interested?" Richie said, grinning in that boyish way he displayed at times.

"Well, my opportunities for the big payoff are about runnin' dry, and I ain't gettin' any younger. I'm forty-seven years old man, about tired of this shit. I've wasted a lot of time. Besides the cop shit, I did a lot of stupid stuff in Detroit up until they bagged me for that bank job. I just wanna come into some cash and disappear in the Carribean. Make a long story short? I'm up for it." Ray said, "Now let's get outta here."

Four years in the slam had been enough, it was time to get working again.