The five-two Tran wore a pin-striped suit that set off his white hair, which reached the middle of his back, and wispy, white beard, which reached the middle of his chest. His round, wire-rimmed eyeglasses softened the stark lines of his face, commas for eyebrows, slanted eyes, and a hooked nose.
Tran had been investigated for everything from murder to arson since he stepped, penniless, off a bus in 1975. Before coming to Central City, he’d been a translator for the U.S. Army in Vietnam, which meant he’d made a fortune selling black market U.S. goods to the wealthy South Vietnamese while serving the troops as a pimp and drug dealer.
He’d had to leave most of his fortune behind when he’d bribed his way onto a transport plane leaving Saigon a few months before it fell to the Vietcong, but he had friends and family on both ends of the Ho Chi Minh trail and had slowly smuggled his wealth across the Pacific in the form of military surplus, heroin, and flesh. He’d spent seventeen years in Central City consolidating his influence, first in the Vietnamese, Korean, and Hmong immigrant communities of Waite Park and eventually spreading into Uptown, The Heights, and The Hill.
Long white hair and a long white beard. A soft voice, slightly squeaky. He wears a black, felt, bolero hat and a black overcoat over a pin-striped, three-piece suit.