Inside Toronto’s Chinatown: That Time I Tried to Join the Triads

by Greg Chabot

I was attracted to organized crime; it holds a mystique. But there is a dark underside outsiders don’t see.

I was working for the railroad, and was assigned to a job in Toronto. I had to stop and get a work visa at the border. Thankfully that went off without any issues. It was my first time crossing an international border as a scum civilian. 

If I wasn’t being a jackass at the strip bars, I would wander down to Chinatown and get a good meal. I noticed a lot of shady characters hanging out at my favorite restaurant I won’t name. With my background, I pegged them as Triad.

READ MORE from Greg Chabot: Tortured, Shot, Stuffed in a Trunk: One Dead Cop Triggered a Day of Hate in Iraq

I had always been attracted to organized crime; it holds a mystique. Growing up I’d see gangsters with nice cars and foolishly thinking this is how life should be. People like action, and that life has plenty of it. But there is the dark underside outsiders don’t see. 

Triads go back hundreds of years. I admired their discipline and respect they showed to their members. After befriending some of them, I was invited into the back room to hang out. Mind you I was the only round eye in there with my long hair and beard; I looked like a fucking Viking. To complete the look, I wore this black leather trench coat. 

It wasn’t all fun and games either. I saw one dude get a brutal beatdown when he got caught trying to cheat at Fan-Tan. I enjoyed the atmosphere and liked to people watch and there was always a Gun-fu movie on the TV. It was loud with all the chatter and cigarette smoke so thick it looked like fog.

I’m not a gambler; I like to play a game or two and cash out. I found myself thinking about cock fights – something I’d been exposed to overseas.

During that period, I was losing my way. I had no direction and no idea how to stop the descent into chaos my life was heading too. I really hated my job and wanted to belong to something bigger. I was goofing off one day and saw one of my new acquaintances going into shops to collect “Lucky” money. Lucky money is paid for protection from “Bad elements” etc. It is a traditional racket used by criminal organizations worldwide to fill the coffers.

Greg had tea with The Boss.

In a moment of weakness, I started to feel like a chump busting my ass and no life or anything to show for it. Which was my own fault spending money frivolously on hookers, drugs etc., trying to get approval from people who didn’t give two fucks after the drinks and lap dances stopped.

Like a good victim, I blamed my problems on others, instead of manning up and taking responsibility for my lack of self-discipline and control.

I got the idea of asking my “friends” for a job. 

I already had a work visa and naively thought being an American I could help them with new “Business Opportunities.” If not that, my proficiency with firearms could be a multiplier against rivals. That night I showed up and had a drink while playing cards. I nonchalantly asked about joining their organization.

Everything went dead silent. You could literally hear a pin drop in the joint. And yes, every fucking eye was looking at me some with disbelief; others with hate.

I figured here we go and yes, I had a plan to kill everyone. A chuckle cut through the silence. A calm voice said, “Come and join me foolish American.” 

The guys at the table handed me my money and drink and motion for me to go. Like nothing had happened everything went back to normal. I walked over to a table in the corner to join “Danny” who I soon found out, was the “Elder Brother” (Boss). He introduced himself and we shook hands and sat down. He asked about my background and what I was doing in Toronto. He seemed impressed by my military background. And we spent some time talking about Guam and other places I have been to.

Then Danny asks the tough question, “Why do you want to join us?”

I answered honestly. “I admire the traditions and discipline of your people and the respect you all show one another.” Continuing: “I feel I could bring some value to your organization with my proficiency in firearms. And could open doors in the states for business opportunities.” 

While I’m giving my pitch, Danny sits there listening respectfully while keeping a neutral expression on his face. Finishing my pitch, I sit there patiently as he is deep in thought for a few minutes and tells me the bad news.

“You are either very brave or foolish, Gweilo.”  He must have noticed my look of disappointment. “I like you, but you are a Gweilo.” (Ghost Man, slang for white people.) “I see a good person, and this life is not for you. Not that you wouldn’t be an asset, you are lost and have not found your way in life yet.”  

Though I was disappointed he did have a point. Being a round-eye and an American would probably draw attention or cause a loss of face. As rivals might see the use of Gweilos as weakness, though I figured in a fight I was worth five of them.

He reached across the table and grabbed my hands. “Trust me, this is not your destiny. You will find your way my friend.”

I was at a loss for words; I don’t take rejection well and tend to take it personal. Part of me was flattered by his words of kindness.

“Thank you for your time and kind words,” I said. “I have to ask; you didn’t think I was police?”

He lets out a loud laugh. “Even Police wouldn’t try what you did. I knew you were not one of them. Join me for tea.” He assured me I was welcome to hang out and with a wink, he would let me know if they had any “Openings.” 

Every time I’d come in, I always made sure to pay my respects to Danny. I was very lucky to have this end positively. I believe to this day he saw something in me I didn’t. Being in a closed society/organization can get lonely, and it is nice to befriend/talk with an outsider sometimes.

Don’t get me wrong, these people can be very dangerous if you cross them or owe them money. My experience was positive, and I was always treated with respect. And some would look at me and shake their head at the crazy American that wanted a job.

I am very grateful to this day I didn’t get that job.

Greg Chabot served in Iraq 2004-2005. He is a freelance writer living in New Hampshire. He frequently contributes to Soldier of Fortune.