The nimble busboy - a nametag saying his name is Fang - glances back at where Claire ran off to, a slight frown appearing on his tan yellow face. "Damn girl, always waiting until the last second to use the washroom..." He begins to wipe up the spilled beer with a damp towel from behind the bar, hands callous and dry. "Sorry about that sir, you want another beer?"

The door jingles as it swings open, a grizzled man stepping inside. His unshaven face and salt-and-pepper hair stands out amongst the fairly clean-shaven and youthful people in the room, along with the fact that he's wearing a heavy, thick brown trenchcoat in this oppressive heat. He scratches his chin with chipped yellow nails, the flash of a sergeant's police badge and his holstered gun clearly seen by all looking at him, the noise level in the place - which was slowly approaching a loud roar - quickly falling down in tone and level.

"gǒuzǎizi," Fang mutters, ringing the dirty rag out over the sink. "Sorry guys, looks like I've gotta step away as well." He motions for a worker from the kitchen to take his spot as he disappears into a side room, a sign hanging beside it saying in English (and what you presume to be Mandarin Chinese), "Employees Only".

Tim brings the beer to his lips, staring at the man in the door way. 5 seconds later he places the empty can lightly on the bar top.
"Yeah, that safe and quite thing? We might not be in the best place to find it." In a lower voice "This guy is the Katrina of shit storms, where ever he goes, violence just seems to happen. Might be a good time for you to duck out of here."

Duncan follows Tim's gaze. A shiver runs up his spine as he studies the man for a moment, "Jesus, I can tell. You know him?"

The police officer walks past the bar, towards the 'Employees Only' section where Fang ran to earlier. One busboy tries to stop him but a quick glare stops him dead in his tracks. Just as he is about to enter Fang emerges, an older Chinese man behind him, a long thin white beard going down to his chest waiving about ever so slightly.

"You not welcome," the elderly man says, a little too loud to be a private conversation. "We cause no trouble for you, leave."

"Oh I'm not here for you," the officer growls, anger clearly detected in his voice. "I'm here for your young Wu. Tell me where she is and I leave in peace."

Fang begins to crack his knuckles loudly, trying to make even more of a scene than the old man. "Well she's not here, so you can just leave."

The officer almost laughs at Fang, quickly giving him a once-over. "Tell your spry little cousin here to sit back, let the big boys have a man-to-man talk."

The old man smirks at the 'man-to-man' line, his posture stoic. "Boy may be young, but his words are true; woman left a few minutes ago."

The officer almost growls in disgust as he spits on the floor, a particularly large lugie splashing very close to the old man's cloth slippers. "Fine then, but if she returns, call me." He barely takes two steps towards the door before the sole window explodes inward, a thunderous explosion spraying glass everywhere as flames shoot up straight into the sky, screams of terror and panic filling the restaurant as people scramble towards the emergency exit at the back of the restaurant.

Turning to watch the man leave, Duncan is hurled back against the bar, glass and other small debris pepper his body as he throws up a arm to protect himself. The blast wave rips his jacket and shirt and he is slammed off his feet to land in a dazed, crumbled heap on the floor.

The explosion takes Tim back. The humid summer heat, becomes the oppressiveness of dry desert, the shattered glass isn't from a wall window but his Humvee's windshield, The liquid isn't beer, and Duncan's body is missing both arms.
He shakes his head and he's back in the China town. His training kicks in and before he can think he's pulled his gun and sprinted to the side of the now missing window. He peaks his head around the corner for a fraction of a second then pulls it back to asses his options.
"Duncan, YOu OK?"

Fang and the elderly man are discussing something in Chinese while the officer runs to the blown out window, handgun already drawn, giving Tim a stern look. "Fuck, not again..." He looks up and down the street quickly as dozens of people run out of buildings and alleyways, trying to get away from the smouldering wreckage that used to be his car. After waiting a few moments he holsters the gun, picking Duncan up off the ground and leaning him against the bar. "Stay here kid," he says, dusting some shattered glass out of his hair. He takes out a cell phone and thumbs the speed dial, calling the local dispatcher for an ambulance, fire department and a couple of cop cars to the restaurant's address.

"Told you," the elderly man says, walking up to the officer. "Bad things happen with you around. Out of my shop, now."

"This isn't over old man," he growls, glancing around the restaurant. How a place that was probably well and above occupancy emptied out in under 30 seconds is mind-boggling, but the only people left inside are Fang, the old man, the officer and two civilians: Duncan and Tim. "But I'm taking the civvies with me; they're the only remaining witnesses to the crime, as I know what your statements are gonna be." He also points to Tim, motioning to put the handgun down. "By the way, you do know that carrying a handgun is illegal in city limits, even if you are a security guard for the Amber boys down the street. I'd suggest disarming it now, I'd hate to have to write you up for that; paperwork and all that shit."

Tim ejects the magazine and dechambers the first round. He places it back in his holster, putting the magazine and round into his front left pocket. His hand emerges, slowly with a wallet. He flips it open and approaches the officer.
"I'm Police, or I was, I've got a permit. And I'm more than willing to help out in anyway, Sarge."

Duncan leans against the bar and mentally gives himself the once over; besides a bruised rib or two everything seems to be working. He rubs his rib gingerly, "That's gonna hurt in the morning," he murmurs to himself.
The moves toward Tim, "What the hell happened?"

"Car bomb, near as I can guess," the officer growls, looking at Duncan. "Not the first time this has happened. If you guys don't mind, when my other ride arrives I'm gonna take you guys in for some quick questioning, maybe sit you down with a sketch artist to describe the woman to me." He looks at Tim's flipped open wallet, raising an eyebrow at the name. "I heard about you... War vet who went civilian cop for a good 15 years before retiring, right? How's the Amber job?"

From behind them Fang coughs loudly, more-so to draw attention to himself than anything else. "I believe uncle said it's time for you to leave," he says, still brushing up the debris inside the restaurant. "At least leave the paying customers alone until your police arrive, they still are in the store and we still need to serve them." He motions over to the bar, the elderly man pouring a pair of glasses of hot tea. "Go, sit down. The officer will be more than happy to wait outside, won't you?"

You can almost see the daggers shooting out of his eyes, staring at Fang. "This isn't over, half-wit." At that, he stomps outside, almost knocking the swinging door off it's hinges as he begins to inspect what's left of his ride.

"My deepest apologies," the elderly man goes. "Normally the restaurant isn't this... dangerous. Sit, relax for a moment. Consider this 'on the house,' as you youths call it."