The Soup

The Soup


Stanley Vang sat alone in the back booth of the restaurant concentrating on his lunch.

He sucked hot soup from his spoon, then spooned up some more, never taking his eyes off the contents of the bowl.

He pretended to be unaware of his surroundings, even of the limping waitress that gave him another dirty look as she passed by.

Ignoring her, he kept eating his soup.

Stanley was small but sinewy, in his late forties, and wearing his hair closely cropped. His skin was the shade of antique parchment.

He allowed people to think that he was Chinese, but was actually a Vietnamese refugee who had fled to the States after the fall of Saigon. Rumor had it, he’d been an interrogation expert, using any tool or technique to get his prisoners to cooperate, which was probably true.

But that was then.

Now, he ran this restaurant and would never tolerate his employees to be late for work, ever.

Again the waitress hobbled by, angry, slowing only a little to examine her small toe floating in the bowl of Stanley's soup.