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After getting a few thousand in startup cash from Sean Arthur, Lawson's chop shop was up and running in no time.
The location was northern Long Beach, right on the edge of Norwalk.
Just a single-story building with two street-facing bays and a tiny break room where you could crash if you needed to.
Brian had scouted the spot. Rent was about a grand a month, plus tools and equipment. Sean's money was already stretching thin.
Good thing Lawson had the Gearhead Trump Card—he could MacGyver half the gear himself from scrap.
No grand opening party, no balloons, nothing. Lawson was genuinely broke after setup, so he kept it dead quiet.
Half the day passed and he still hadn't turned a single job.
Good thing he wasn't relying on this place to eat, or he'd be starving.
Business wasn't walking in the door, but trouble sure as hell was.
Lawson was sitting inside, bored out of his mind, listening to the radio and playing solitaire, when an old-school muscle car rolled up out front.
Three Black guys stepped out, all wearing the same arrogant, nose-in-the-air sneer.
They came straight in throwing racist shit right away.
"Hey, yellow monkey! Who the fuck said you could open up here?"
Lawson looked up, eyes turning ice-cold.
"Who the hell are you talking to?"
One of them jabbed a finger in his face.
"You! Opening a shop on this street without talking to the Mills brothers first? Big mistake."
Classic shakedown. They saw an Asian guy and figured easy money.
This was exactly why America still had ethnic neighborhoods. A stranger in the wrong hood got preyed on fast.
Truth was, Brian had picked a smart location.
Among the four Irish crews, Sharks ran the southern docks, New Irish held west Long Beach, Castro owned the east.
Byrne Crew was different—no fixed turf. Adams probably thought street corners were beneath him; his real money came from the lab.
That left northern Long Beach as no-man's-land between New Irish and Castro territory, currently occupied by a few small Black gangs.
Opening here meant none of the big Irish crews would notice him right away—perfect for a new face like Lawson.
Downside? Small-time idiots noticed too.
"I ain't never heard of any fucking Mills brothers, nigga! Go pick cotton somewhere else!"
In America, showing weakness gets you eaten alive. The street world ran on pure jungle rules.
Lawson fired right back without hesitation.
His words lit the three guys up. They reached into their pockets like they were grabbing weapons.
Lawson's hand slipped into his own, fingers already wrapped around the Glock 18.
That's when a loud shout came from down the street.
"What the fuck are you three doing here?!"
A scruffy guy with a cast on one arm came walking up with several men behind him.
"Billy Costigan, this ain't Castro turf. Mind your own damn business!"
Billy spat on the ground and glared with pure menace.
"Fuck off! I'm in a shit mood today and feel like stomping some niggas. You volunteering?"
As it turned out, the word didn't always trigger the expected reaction. Two hundred years ago they heard it every day.
Facing Billy's bigger crew, the Mills brothers backed down. They just tossed a weak threat before peeling out.
"We'll see about this!"
They jumped back in their old muscle car and rolled.
Billy stepped inside the shop, glanced around, then noticed Lawson's handsome face.
"New here?"
"Just moved in."
"Why the hell would you open in a shithole like this?"
"Rent's cheap."
Lawson gave a harmless, slightly dumb smile. From the first word, Billy's voice had sounded way too familiar.
Ever since getting the Mockingbird Trump Card, Lawson's hearing had become insanely sharp. He could pick out the tiniest differences in voices.
Billy shook his head. He'd already decided the kid got scammed by the landlord.
"Kid, nothing good ever comes cheap in America. If you wanna run a real business here, go down the street to a bar called Dublin Dream and talk to a guy named Mike. Pay the protection fee and hang a Castro crew sign out front. Otherwise this kinda shit's gonna keep happening."
The name "Mike" finally clicked. This was the same Billy Costigan who had run during the Bonanno estate raid.
What a crazy coincidence.
Lawson narrowed his eyes.
Anyone involved in that raid had to be core Castro crew.
But that face… Lawson's expression turned weird. Even with the gloomy, stressed-out vibe, he recognized it instantly.
Holy shit—isn't this Leonardo DiCaprio?
The undisputed global superstar from the late '90s through 2010. Lawson had seen most of his movies.
The one where Leo played a mob guy was the remake of Infernal Affairs—The Departed.
Lawson hadn't actually watched it, but even if he had, it wouldn't matter. This world didn't follow movie plots exactly. Getting too hung up on it could lead you wrong.
"Kid, why the hell are you staring at me?"
"Nothing, Mr. Costigan. Just wondering if I've got enough cash on hand."
Billy nodded knowingly. Most people in America had zero savings. Opening a shop often wiped them out.
As an undercover cop, Billy still had a decent heart. He decided to help.
"Tell you what—drop my name with Mike. You can push the protection fee to next month."
"Thanks, Mr. Costigan. I'll fix your car for free anytime."
Billy waved it off and left with his guys.
Once the Castro crew was gone, Lawson's face turned serious.
"The Departed, huh?"
It all clicked with what Sean Arthur had said about Frank Castro.
If Frank was playing the Frank Costello role, that explained how he kept slipping every FBI and LAPD net.
But before worrying about that, Lawson had his own problem to handle.
Those stupid Black guys weren't going to let it go.
---
Midnight.
Three guys with natural camouflage crept through the dark.
One whispered, "You sure that yellow monkey left?"
"Yeah, I watched him. Saw him lock up and drive off at dusk."
"Good."
"James, why do we even care if he's here? If he was, we could just beat his ass too."
"Paul, you don't get it! Dude apparently knows people in Castro crew. If we beat him up it becomes a whole different situation! Let's go—pop the roll-up door first!"
These three might've flunked school, but they aced Street Smarts 101.
Failing school just meant bad grades.
Failing the streets meant you died.
They knew exactly who you could fuck with and how far to push revenge without starting a war.
Too bad the Mills brothers had terrible judgment. They'd picked the absolute wrong guy.
They jimmied the lock, rolled up the door, and shined flashlights inside.
"He's gone. Let's wreck this place—smash everything!"
Armed with hammers, wrenches, and baseball bats, they were ready.
Right as they stepped in, the roll-up door slammed shut behind them.
The noise made all three jump.
"Who the fuck is that?!"
They spun around.
A pale, skinny white guy stood by the door.
Dude was wearing a purple suit, a magician's top hat, and holding a gentleman's cane.
He looked completely out of place in an auto shop.
"Hey, gentlemen! Wanna see a magic trick?"
The white guy twirled the cane, gave a little flourish, and suddenly shot out a party-popper effect—streams of colorful ribbons and shiny confetti rained down on their heads.
The Mills brothers froze in pure confusion.
To be fair, the scene was surreal as hell.
Three dudes sneak in at night to trash the place, and some asshole dressed like a stage magician pops up and starts performing.
Even the worst street performers didn't force shows like this.
The weird vibe made one of them snap.
"Motherfucker! Who the hell are you?!"
"Hmm? You don't know my name? That's okay. Just sit back and enjoy the show."
The white guy pulled out a deck of cards like he was about to do another trick.
That was the last straw. The three brothers looked at each other, grabbed their weapons, and charged.
The white guy sighed.
"Seriously? Why can't anyone just watch the performance? Why does it always have to be violence?"
As he spoke, he spun the cane, snapping it into two pieces that turned into sleek nunchaku.
He blocked two attacks with the ends, caught the third weapon with the chain in the middle, and neutralized all three at once.
Then he snapped the cane back together and started raining savage blows down on their heads.
"That's for not watching the show! That's for breaking into someone's shop! That's for trying to destroy my shit!"
The Mills brothers were bleeding from the head, screaming, trying to run.
One of them clutched his bleeding scalp and yelled back, "Hey! We haven't even started destroying anything yet!"
The white guy paused mid-swing.
"…Oh. You're right."
One of the brothers whipped out a pistol fast.
"You fucking white pig—die!"
At that moment the white guy flicked a single playing card.
It flew at a weird angle and struck the gunman straight in the crotch.
A high-pitched, blood-curdling scream tore out. His gun went off from the shock, shooting his buddy in the leg.
Another scream.
The last brother just stood there stunned.
The white guy looked at the unlucky one almost apologetically.
"Sorry about that. I'm still working on that trick. I was actually aiming for the wrist."
He really hadn't meant to.
But sometimes fate had a cruel sense of humor.
Unfortunately, the gunman couldn't hear the apology. He dropped the pistol, clutched his balls, foamed at the mouth, and passed out cold.
When a man feels pain no man should ever feel, unconsciousness is probably a mercy.
The white guy didn't make the other two wait long. He quickly knocked them out with the cane too.
He dragged all three into their own car, drove them to the nearest hospital entrance, and dumped them on the sidewalk.
Whether the hospital actually helped them wasn't his problem.
Maybe some kind-hearted staff would save them… and then hit them with a monster bill.
After cleaning up the blood inside the shop (there wasn't much), the white guy vanished into the night.
No one called the cops. No one got involved.
This was Long Beach. People were used to random gunshots and screams at night.
Everyone simply closed their windows and minded their own business.
---
The next day it was like nothing had happened.
Lawson opened up as usual and finally landed his first real customer. He made a little money.
Soon word about his skills started spreading through the neighborhood fast.
The Gearhead Trump Card was no joke. Lawson could fix cars crazy cheap and crazy fast.
How long the cars actually lasted afterward was pure luck. When they broke again, customers just brought them back—repeat business.
The area was poor, so his cheap-and-dirty strategy worked perfectly.
Most folks would rather pay less to get their car running at 60% than pay full price at a legit shop for 90%.
Especially since most cars around here were already beaters anyway. As long as it drove, that was good enough.
A few days later Lawson was shocked to realize that if he kept operating like this, he'd actually break even in a month or two.
What the fuck? This actually works?