by Louise Penny
Harold went back downstairs. Stopped in the dingy bathroom to survey the wreckage of his face, found there was a cut on his hairline, a thin stream of blood trickling down to his eyebrow. A fat bruise blooming under his left eye.
He wet some paper towels, cleaned himself up the best he could, and went back out to his table and chair. It wasn’t long before Bai came out and put down a plate of steamed dumplings with a dark brown dipping sauce.
Bai looked at Harold’s face and placed his hand on Harold’s shoulder.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
Harold was a little surprised to find the man spoke English. They’d never exchanged words before, outside of a passing introduction on Harold’s first day.
“Not your fault,” Harold said. “Thank you for the food. I appreciate it.”
“It’s not usually like this,” Bai said. “It shouldn’t be for too much longer.”
“My friend Wen said he’s going to help me,” Harold said.
Bai made a face, and Harold got very nervous. Like maybe he shouldn’t have said that. The man worked for Mr. Mo. Maybe it would have been better to just keep his mouth shut.
But Bai looked around. The man at the register was on the phone and the restaurant was mostly empty. After confirming there was no one close to them, Bai said, “Your friend Wen is the reason you’re here.”
Harold felt his stomach twist. “What does that mean?”
The curtain behind them parted and Mr. Mo peeked out. Bai smiled, said something in Chinese, and ducked back into the kitchen.
After Mr. Mo dismissed him for the night, Harold wasn’t sure what to do. He wanted to go home, to sleep, because his body ached and his head hurt and he thought one of his teeth might be loose.
But he couldn’t shake what Bai had said.
So he walked toward Dizzy’s, where he and Wen would often wind up. He wondered if Wen would be there, or if tonight he was working, driving the M23 bus back and forth across midtown Manhattan.
Harold thought back to the night they met. They had both been tossed out of a late-night poker spot in the basement of a West Village bar on the corner of Sullivan. Harold for running a debt, Wen for arguing with the owner over the jacked-up price of the beer.
Before that night they’d been familiar to each other. Two addicts orbiting each other in the darkness of the city’s less-than-legal gambling dens. As they stood on the curb, Harold smoking a cigarette he bummed off a friendly bartender, he wondered if Wen might be a kindred sprit. Someone to grab a drink and commiserate with. Harold asked Wen if he wanted to hit a nearby bar he knew served cheap beers and didn’t get too busy on the weeknights.
Wen responded with an offer to bring him to a gambling den on Mulberry Street.
Harold was nervous from the get. He’d heard about the spots in Chinatown, and he was curious about them. Without someone to show him the way, he had no idea how to find them. But he didn’t know the customs. He figured language would be an issue. It was a very different, intimidating universe.
At that moment all he wanted was a beer. To quit while he was ahead, or at least not any further down, and for a gambler that was a major personal victory.
But Wen had the kind of easy smile and warm personality that made you want to say yes when he asked you for something. He insisted the place on Mulberry Street had good food and friendly dealers. The language barrier wouldn’t be an issue. Anyway, the regular spots in the West Village were getting too expensive, too full of young kids who watched the World Series of Poker on ESPN and suddenly decided they were experts.
Plus, they had beer on Mulberry Street.
Why not, Harold thought.
Maybe this was the moment his luck would finally turn.
Wen was sitting at the bar, nursing an amber beer, watching the Yankees game on the television mounted in the corner. Harold sat down next to him.
The pretty bartender in the cowboy hat didn’t wait for him to order, just filled a pint glass with the cheapest beer they had and placed it onto a coaster in front of him. Harold dug a couple of singles out of his pocket and placed them on the bar.
Wen looked at Harold’s face and said, “Jeez, man, what happened to you?”
“You did.”
“What do you mean?”
“Why did you bring me to Happy Dumpling?” Harold asked. “That night we first hung out. Why did you bring me there?”
Wen exhaled. Undid and redid his ponytail. It didn’t take a gambler to see it was a tell. After a few moments Wen said, “C’mon, man. I was just looking to help a fellow player out. You looked like you were still up for some action.”
Harold took a sip of his beer. “You said you worked for Mr. Mo.”
“I did.”
“When?”
“Before.”
“How long did you have to do it for?”
Wen pursed his lips, his words taking on a tone of aggravation. “One day he told me I was done. He sent me home.”
Harold twisted the stool around until he was looking at Wen. “Why did you bring me there?”
“Look, man, what happened happened,” Wen said. “You should have kept yourself in check. You didn’t. I told you to be careful. But I’ve been thinking about what you said. About . . .”
Wen arched his back, looked around the bar. The bartender was down at the other end. No one was sitting close. He leaned in to Harold’s ear. “I’ve been thinking of what you said. You’re getting pretty used to the routine now. Mr. Mo is comfortable with you. Maybe we can work together. Give something a try.”
“Something what?”
Wen smiled. “You know how much money goes through that place?”
“You mean knock him off?” Harold asked. “You told me he was dangerous.”
“Where did you say your wife and daughter moved to?” Wen asked.
“Iowa.”
“One big score. You up and leave to Iowa. Get closer to them. Never come back to this nightmare town again. I’m not saying we have to do it right now, but keep your eyes open. If you see there’s something we can exploit, let’s sit down and have a conversation about it, you know?”
Harold thought about his daughter and the ache in his chest.
Wen held up his pint glass and smiled. Harold picked up his own glass and clinked it against Wen’s.
“Partners,” Wen said.
“Sure,” Harold said.
Finally he saw his way out.
Harold wasn’t sure if it was Wen’s plan all along to get him into position and plant the seeds of a heist. Maybe he came up with the plan on the spot, to derail Harold’s train of thought.
It didn’t matter. Either way, Harold was pretty sure he’d been a sacrificial lamb. That Wen was stuck doing deliveries for Mr. Mo and realized the only way out was to push some gweilo into the job. He almost didn’t blame Wen. Harold briefly wondered if he could pull off the same. Find some desperate gambler looking for a fix, willing to run up a stupid debt.
Then he just got angry.
That anger festered in his gut, making him feel sick. He’d thought they were friends. And after years of reneging on loans and breaking promises, Wen seemed to be the only friend he had left.
A long time ago, so long he couldn’t even remember when, Harold decided the life of wearing a suit and tie and sitting in a gray box to make some rich person richer was not the life he wanted for himself.
Gambling was a natural fit. He was good with numbers. Gutsy enough to make bold moves but cautious enough to sit on a mediocre hand. For a while he made some nice money. And it was fun. But as the bills stacked up, he got desperate.
Made bolder moves. Sat on hands less.
When Marguerite left and the alimony payments piled up, it got worse.
Maybe he could exploit some weakness in Mr. Mo’s operation. Maybe he and Wen could come up with a plan that would score them some quick cash, and Harold could get on a plane. Mr. Mo seemed to have juice, but probably not out in Iowa. Even if he co
uldn’t get back in with his family, at least he’d be well away from here.
But how long would it last?
What if they came out of the job with a couple of grand each? It would float him for a little bit, but he’d end up in the same spot. The spot that got him into this situation in the first place.
So he chose not to end up there.
And as he explained Wen’s idea to Mr. Mo, he felt something approaching serenity. That he was finally making a decision to better himself. Because it was the smart decision. Smarter than a heist. Smarter than maybe getting himself shot or beaten to death by vengeful triads.
He got himself into this mess. He would ride it out, finish it, and move on.
No more gambling.
He was making his own luck.
Mr. Mo listened silently, that cigarette dangling from his lip. Harold thought at the end maybe he should barter for early release, but thought it best to just let the truth percolate. Mr. Mo was harsh, but didn’t seem unreasonable.
After finishing the story, Harold thought he saw a hint of a smile on Mr. Mo’s face. Like something flitting on the edge of his vision, but when he looked, found there was nothing there.
Mr. Mo raised his hand and waved him off. Harold went downstairs and smiled at Bai and sat at his chair. It wasn’t long before Mr. Mo placed a bag down in front of Harold.
“Last delivery,” he said. “Braised frog. After, you go home.”
That was a new one. He hadn’t delivered braised frog before. Harold picked up the bag and Mr. Mo grabbed his wrist.
“After, you go home,” he said, drawing out the words. “You don’t come back. Ever.”
Harold nodded. He thought about thanking Mr. Mo, but decided against it. It felt perverse to thank him. The only thing he was thankful for was the fact that he’d never see this man again.
The address was for a street Harold didn’t recognize. He stepped out of the restaurant and typed it into his phone. It came up in Coney Island. That meant more than an hour, round-trip. But Harold didn’t mind. It would be worth it, just to be done.
He walked to the N stop at Canal, sat on the train with the bag nestled in his lap, thinking about what he would do with the rest of his day. No beers with Wen, that was for sure. Another person he hoped to never see again.
As the train made its way down the aboveground tracks of Brooklyn, Harold pulled out his cell phone and tapped Marguerite’s name on his contact list. Maybe he’d catch her in a good mood and she’d put him on the phone with Cindy.
A gruff voice answered. “Hello?”
“Hi, I’m looking for Marguerite?”
“She changed her number,” the voice said. “Number got reassigned.”
“I’m sorry. Listen, did she leave a forwarding number?”
The man clicked off.
Harold closed the phone and looked at it. Put it back in his pocket. Felt the ache in his chest grow bigger. Marguerite probably forgot to tell him. Maybe she emailed it to him. He hadn’t checked his email in days.
He brushed it off. It was nothing. A mistake. He’d get word to her somehow. Chances are she wouldn’t believe him, because he’d given her this song and dance before. But this time he would follow it up with action.
That, he promised himself.
When the doors opened at Stillwell he could smell the salt heavy in the air that came off the ocean. He followed the exit signs down to the sidewalk and checked his phone, found the address was a couple of blocks away.
On the walk back, he would hit Nathan’s. Get a hot dog. Maybe some cheese fries, if he could afford it. He was all the way down here, maybe not ever coming back to New York. One last hot dog at Nathan’s seemed like a proper sendoff.
He walked the long stretches of suburban sidewalks to the little pulsing blue dot on his phone, finally finding it, but the number on the front didn’t match the number on the ticket. He looked at it again and realized there was a second mailbox with the correct number. Must be a side apartment.
Harold walked down the empty driveway to the door with an awning and a single step. He stood in the shadow cast by the house next door and rang the bell before placing the bag on the step, opening it up, and pulling out the Chinese takeout container inside. His heart racing, head spinning, so pleased to almost be done.
The takeout container felt heavier than normal. He pried open the cardboard flaps as the door opened. Harold looked up from the container to see Wen in a tank top and boxers, bleary-eyed and hair unkempt, peering out from inside the darkened apartment.
They stared at each other in confusion.
Then Wen saw the container and his lips parted a little.
Harold looked down into the white folds and found a small, compact handgun.
“Please tell me that’s just a pear,” Wen said as Harold contemplated the ache in his chest.
David H. Hendrickson
Death in the Serengeti
from Fiction River
The smell of newly rotting flesh hit Jakaya Makinda. He stopped his Land Rover, grabbed his binoculars off the seat beside him, and trained them in the direction of the odor’s source.
Eighty meters away, mostly hidden by a rocky outcropping of man-sized boulders, lay the carcasses of a dozen or more slaughtered elephants.
Poachers.
Anger coursed through Makinda. He grabbed his Remington pump-action shotgun and, with his broad-brimmed hat shielding his eyes from the early-morning sun, used the binoculars to scan the Serengeti’s tall grass for predators. The poachers were long since gone, but he wasn’t some damn fool white tourist, stepping out of the security of his vehicle, thinking how cute the animals were, all set to launch into “Hakuna Matata.”
Out here, humans were food. Short and wiry, he’d be less of a meal than the overweight Americans whose entry fees paid his salary as senior park ranger, but he had no interest in being any creature’s gristly lunch.
He approached the rocky outcropping cautiously, binoculars dangling from his neck, his shotgun ready and his .38 holstered but loaded.
His stomach gave way when he stepped past the two largest boulders and saw the full extent of the carnage. Beside what had to be close to twenty dead elephants, their missing tusks sawn off at the roots, lay the carcasses of five hyenas, three jackals, and a couple dozen vultures.
The poachers, as they’d come to do, had poisoned the elephants with cyanide, killing them and everything that came to feast on their corpses, most importantly the vultures, who wouldn’t be left circling overhead for rangers such as himself to notice. The poison killed everything in its path but made for an easier getaway.
Makinda gripped his shotgun tightly. He’d get these devils, these parasites who’d invaded even the Serengeti, Tanzania’s greatest treasure. He’d get them if it was the last thing—
Behind him, his Land Rover exploded.
The force of the concussion knocked Makinda face-forward onto the ground. He tasted the tall grass in his mouth. Felt grains of the hard soil between his fingers. His ears rang.
He looked back over his shoulder and saw flames shooting up from the wrecked carcass of his vehicle. Makinda stared in disbelief and horror.
Makinda shot to his feet, grasping the shotgun, and ran toward the flaming wreckage of the Land Rover. He didn’t know why. It was useless to him now. The two-way radio, referred to by safari companies as the “bush telegraph,” would be destroyed, as was its backup.
He hadn’t called in the slaughter because he knew the safari companies listened in on the rangers’ frequency and would flock to this less popular section of the park to gawk at the butchery. Makinda had wanted to report this in person back at HQ and shield tourists from the ugliness. Let them think Tanzania was perfect.
So now he was stranded.
Alone.
And with no cell phone coverage in this sector of the Serengeti, there was now no way to reach the other rangers. No way to alert them that a group of poachers bold enough to blow up his ve
hicle weren’t settling for elephant tusks. They’d be going for the staggering rewards of rhinoceros horns, which made those from elephant tusks pale by comparison.
Ever since that damned Vietnamese politician claimed rhino-horn powder had cured his cancer, demand had shot through the roof faster than Makinda’s head would have if he’d remained in the Land Rover. The street value now of an average-sized rhino horn was a quarter of a million dollars, and not surprisingly, rhino poaching deaths had skyrocketed every bit as furiously, though mostly outside of the protected national parks. Even so, in this sector of the Serengeti there were only seven rhinos left.
Makinda had always declined the thinly veiled bribe offers, no matter how they escalated. He could be a wealthy man right now, retired in dirty luxury at the age of thirty-nine instead of struggling to care for both his own family of six and that of his late brother, Jephter, whose wife and seven children Makinda had of course taken in.
The only time the temptation had come close to overwhelming him was when Jephter had lain dying of cancer in a Bunda clinic and a poacher, a fat white American with a southern drawl named Luther Ricker, had whispered in his ear, “Save your brother. We’ll give you enough of the rhino powder to make him well. You need not dirty your hands with our money, but save your brother.”
Makinda knew the claims of the rhino powder’s powers were nonsense; all the scientists here said it was so. But he had almost given in that one time.
And perhaps he should have, he sometimes thought. The experts weren’t always right.
Makinda spat, trying to rid the bitter taste of that memory from his mouth. As the smell of burning metal and electronics filled the air, he struggled to gather his thoughts. His vehicle’s explosion had only been the opening gambit. The rhinos would be next, if not his fellow rangers, and he couldn’t just stand by and allow either group to be wiped out.
He had to move. Predators be damned, he had to get to some group that would help him contact his fellow rangers. He’d warn them and get them to the watering holes where the rhinos would be visiting, easy targets for the poachers if not protected.
