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Neon signs buzz through the cool March drizzle, painting the parking lot of the Irvine Spectrum Center in slick shades of electric pink and cyan. It’s early evening, and the air smells of cheap fry oil, exhaust, and the damp asphalt of suburban Orange County.
Inside the dingy back room of Wally’s Bistro, Andy Barker adjusts his oversized chef’s toque while Simon checks his reflection in a grease-stained mirror. They are deep into an investigation of Transcorp—a predatory poultry cartel squeezing small-business owners like Wally. The operation is straightforward yet ruthless: serve Transcorp’s cheap, dangerously tainted chicken, or get burned out. To expose the supply chain, Andy poses as a high-volume line cook eager to buy off-the-books poultry, while Simon plays his crisp, overly eager associate, complete with a beige trench coat and a flip phone clipped to his belt.
The undercover stint at Transcorp’s local processing loading dock goes south the moment Simon’s relentless curiosity gets the better of him. Snooping near the refrigerated trailers, he gets caught peeking under a tarp by a dockworker who doesn't appreciate the intrusion.
An hour later, Simon stumbles back into the strip mall office, wincing as he clutches his face. His left eye is already swollen shut, a deep, blooming plum shade. Lew Staziak, sixty-three years old and thoroughly retired from the private eye business, doesn't even look up from his crosswords at first. He just sighs, a low rumble from deep in his chest, before rising stiffly to head toward the mini-fridge. He pulls out a thick, raw sirloin steak—cold and heavy—and slaps it directly over Simon’s throbbing eye.
"Hold that there," Lew rumbles, his voice like gravel in a blender. "Stop squirming."
Simon groans, pressing the cold beef against his brow as he sits on the edge of the desk. "He didn't even give a warning, Lew. A direct strike. Highly unprofessional."
Lew settles into his swivel chair, crossing his arms. The fluorescent lights overhead hum a steady, droning *B-flat*. "It’s Transcorp. What'd you expect? A sternly worded memo?" Lew leans forward, his weathered face creased with decades of cynicism. "The whole poultry racket in this county is dirty, Simon. They cut the feed with low-grade fillers, pump the birds full of water to pad the weight, and ignore basic refrigeration. It’s poison." He pauses, a faint twitch touching his jaw as he glances toward a discarded KFC bucket in the trash. "Vicious creatures, too. Evil eyes. sharp beaks. I don't trust anything that doesn't have lips."
Simon adjusts the steak, blinking his good eye. "Are you... telling me you're afraid of chickens, Lew?"
"I'm telling you they're dirty, unnatural monstrosities," Lew grunts defensively, turning his face away. "Now keep that meat on your face."
By the time the streetlights flick on outside, casting long, amber shadows across the wet pavement, the air has turned crisp. Andy remains embedded at Transcorp’s warehouse to trace the shipping manifests, leaving Lew and Simon to handle the ground check at the restaurant. They take the metal fire escape stairs down into the secluded alley behind Wally’s Bistro. Damp fog hangs low between the cinderblock walls. Simon adjusts his trench coat, his nose still tender, while Lew moves with the practiced, heavy-footed quiet of an ex-cop.
"Keep your eyes open," Lew mutters under his breath. "This alley's a blind spot."
Before Simon can respond, two tall shadows step out from behind the industrial dumpster, blocking both ends of the narrow passageway. They aren't low-level dockworkers; these are Transcorp’s enforcers, clad in heavy windbreakers and carrying the distinct demeanor of men who do bad things for a living.
"Look what we got here," the taller man says. "The pest and the old man."
Simon steps forward, trying to project authority. "Gentlemen, we are currently conducting an official—"
A solid, brutal fist cracks straight into the bridge of Simon’s nose. He staggers back, stars bursting behind his eyelids, before a heavy lead pipe swings through the dark, striking him dead in the center of his sternum. The impact knocks the wind clean out of his lungs. Simon drops to his knees, gasping, hands clutching his chest as he struggles to draw air.
The taller enforcer crouches down, a sickening grin spreading across his face. He slides a hand inside the deep lining of his own heavy trench coat, leaning in close until Simon can smell the stale tobacco on his breath. "You guys think this is just about bad meat?" the man whispers softly, his voice dripping with malice. "Transcorp’s got a special batch. A little scratch from one of my personal stock, and you're burning up with a fever inside twelve hours. Systemic salmonella poisoning. Clean, quiet, and nobody questions a bad stomach bug."
He reaches deeper into his coat pocket to pull out his biological weapon: a small, visibly diseased, sickly chicken, its feathers matted and eyes half-glazed.
The moment the feathered head emerges into the pale alley light, Lew’s brain short-circuits. The decades of hardened police training vanish, replaced entirely by pure, unadulterated primal panic.
"Get that damn thing away from me!" Lew bellows, his voice cracking into an uncharacteristic shriek.
Flailing his arms in absolute terror, Lew swings wildly with the heavy iron Maglite flashlight in his right hand. The solid metal casing connects with a loud, sickening *CRACK* right across the handler’s jaw. The man goes down like a sack of bricks, the sick bird fluttering frantically into the darkness of the alley. Simon, still gasping on his knees, looks up in dazed astonishment.
"Movement, Simon! Now!" Lew yells, his eyes wide, breathing like a freight train.
Despite the throbbing agony in his chest and the blood leaking from his nose, Simon reaches up. He grabs Lew’s trembling hand, gripping it tight. Lew hauls him up in one fluid motion, and together, the two of them sprint out of the dark alley and into the bright, rain-slicked lights of the Spectrum.