by Nate Granzow
"Excuse me, would you mind holding these?" I asked, withdrawing my phone and wallet from my pockets and handing them to the bewildered man. "Thanks, pal."
I climbed over the railing and looked below me. The chilly night air, moist and heavy, slipped through my hair. Though I couldn't see the two thugs who had boarded, I could hear their taunts and threats in Korean, to which Tokko responded in kind. The cigarette boat's motor rumbled as it idled, blue smoke rolling upward as the hull rocked against the fiberglass body of our yacht—fastened to the larger craft by rope tipped with a steel grappling hook. Taking a deep breath, I considered how thankful I was for the alcohol in my system: Had I been sober, I would never have allowed myself to consider my next move.
I was about to undertake a gamble, and the odds of success were as bad as those at a truck stop casino. If I acted too quickly, everyone on the yacht would be mercilessly beaten to death as I watched from the safety of the pirates' boat. Too late, and our attackers would slice me into chum, use my remains to attract sharks, and then feed the creatures my friends. Success resided somewhere in the narrow margin between the two.
I plunged 15 feet to the lower level. Hitting hard, I rolled to a stop, stood up waveringly, and ripped the grappling hook from the yacht before diving onto the pirate's craft.
Clambering into the pilot's seat, I looked back to see if the boat's owners had pursued me. They most certainly had.
Just as the second pirate leapt aboard, I shoved the throttle forward. The boat leapt ahead and I slammed into my seat, the hull rising high in the air as the motors howled. The fast-moving sea air tore tears from my eyes as I looked back. One of the pirates had been thrown into the water by the rapid acceleration, his bald head bobbing in the waves like a melon, but the other had plunged his hooked gaff into the boat's fiberglass body and was climbing his way toward me.
Whipping the wheel left and right as far as I dared without rolling the boat over and launching myself into the surf, I tried to shake the man loose. But his grip was steadfast, and each time I brought the wheel back to center, he would secure a new hold a foot closer to me.
Can't fault his dedication.
I knew if I continued like this, I'd only earn myself a crushed skull and a very short swim.
After one last effort to break my attacker's hold with the evasive maneuvering, I did the only thing I could. I cut the throttle.
We both flew forward: my forehead smashing against the instrument console, the pirate plunging through the glass windshield up to his shoulder. Resting my elbow on the unconscious thug's back, I shook the dizzying flashes of color away and rubbed my head; then pushed the throttle forward again, more gently this time. Puttering toward the Chamberlains' yacht, my unconscious armrest suddenly came awake, sliding his bloodied head from the windshield. Dozily, he reached for a support, but instead found the throttle, his body weight slamming the stick forward and snapping the aluminum handle at its base. Pushed back into our seats, the speedboat lunged ahead—on a direct crash course with the side of the unmoving yacht.
Now was the time for choices. But with the throttle jammed into a wide-open acceleration, and with our boat too near the yacht to gently steer away from it, there weren't too many to make. So I did the only logical thing I could think of. I took to the water.
"Sorry about the boat!" I yelled over the rushing air. Boxing the semi-cognizant pirate in the ear, I cranked the wheel to the left as hard and abruptly as I could muster—the craft's nose digging violently into the surf and beginning a roll from which it wouldn't recover. Flung into the sea as the boat capsized, my body skipped a few yards before I strategically employed the use of my face to bring myself to a complete stop—a gallon of East China Sea saltwater flooding through my nostrils and down my throat as I flapped wildly toward the surface.
I felt as though my clothes, and my shoes, especially, were pulling me further down, trying to drown me. It wasn't as though I needed any help doing it. I could see the moonlight just an arm's length away, distorted and glimmering on the other side of the rolling water, but it may as well have been a mile away. My breath was giving out, and I couldn't seem to battle my way to air. Just as I felt a strangling panic overtaking me, another body hit the water and began pushing me toward the surface.
The precious night air tasted as sweet as a drink of water to a lost desert traveler. Hands dragged me onto the boat.
"Cogar? You okay buddy? That was some fucking heroic shit, there."
On my back, I looked up to see Harold hovering over me. He was perfectly dry, so I knew he wasn't the one who came in after me.
"And without your cozzie, too."
I looked to my right. With legs crossed and water dripping from her hair, Jessica leaned back—her shirt plastered flatteringly to her front like a Sports Illustrated swimsuit model.
"What's a cozzie?" I asked between breaths.
"Swim trunks," she replied, leaning over and patting my cheek.
14
The Gran Melia
Knowing Harold's intolerance for anything requiring patience, Jessica called ahead of our arrival in Shanghai and requested a taxi meet us at the port. We checked in at customs, then, within a few minutes of piling into our ride, like exhausted toddlers in the back seat of a minivan, everyone succumbed to slumber but me. My mind was still racing through the events of the day: my conversation with the colonel and the young fugitive from North Korea, the brawl in the bathroom, the pirate attack, any of these things would have made for a memorable day. But, crammed shoulder-to-shoulder in the back seat, Jessica resting her head against my collar, my thoughts became inexorably locked on her, my beautiful rescuer.
Maybe this trip wasn't the worst idea.
Through the taxi’s windshield, the rainbow of lights spanning the city skyline glowed brightly. This city was unlike any I had seen before: Though enormous and busy, it emanated a profound uniqueness, as though each building had been the life work of an artist.
When we arrived at our hotel, The Gran Melia Shanghai, I shook my head in wonderment at the towering building, slapping Harold on the back as we exited the taxi. I would never have sprung for such luxury; furnished in the most profligate fashion, the building overlooked the Huangpu River and offered a sweeping panorama of the city. It was the kind of place where a bottle of water from the room's mini-bar costs more than I make on an average day.
"Harry, this place…it's magnificent."
"Well when you travel with a Chamberlain, you travel in style, my friend. Besides, it's not every day that you grace us with your presence—I thought you'd appreciate a little change of pace from sleeping in hostels and bunkers."
Entering the lobby, the radiant golden light that flowed over the sweeping ceilings and glossy granite floors made even our exhausted faces appear smooth and relaxed.
"Sign us in, will you Jess?" Harold said over his shoulder as he and his two companions made for the elevators.
"Yes, and while you're at it, send up a bottle of Dom Pérignon '53, lightly chilled, and some beluga caviar—I'm famished," I joked.
Jessica didn't laugh, but smiled and shook her head.
"If you know him the way I do, a request like that isn't at all out of character."
Letting her pen drop, she smiled at the receptionist and grabbed our key cards.
"Let me get your bag," I said, reaching for the strap on her arm.
"I've got it," she said firmly. "Look, you're cute, but the chivalry thing? I don't need to be babied or protected. Every guy I've been with has been insistent that I'm in need of a man's strength to get by, but I don't. Really."
"Well that's good, because I was really hoping you'd carry my bag. I love to be babied and protected," I replied, holding my scuffed leather duffel outstretched.
Laughing, she pushed it back and said, "You call yourself a man? Carry it yourself."
Strolling leisurely toward the gold-accented elevator bay, empty of any waiting passengers this early in the morning, we sto
od side-by-side and listened for the whir of pulleys on the nearest approaching elevator.
"What made you decide to jump onto that boat?" she asked. "Those crims would have killed you if they'd caught you."
"I was just trying to contribute," I answered nonchalantly.
With a little laugh, she turned to me, her golden red hair glittering with an almost flame-like intensity in the low light.
"So you mean to tell me that, to you, that fiasco on the boat was as insignificant as picking up the check at a restaurant? You nearly drowned."
That actually hadn't been what I meant. I know I'm not the smartest, best-looking, wealthiest, or most charming guy around. My skill sets are limited primarily to writing and recklessness—and not necessarily in that order. So when an opportunity presents itself to do something dangerous while protecting the welfare of others, it behooves me to take full advantage of the situation and make myself of value.
"Ah, but I didn't, did I?" I said. "And I've got you to thank for that."
The doors to our right dinged loudly and parted.
"After you," I said, admiring her trim figure as she stepped inside.
Pointing across my chest at the buttoned panel, she said, "Our rooms are on the sixth floor."
I really wanted to pull the emergency stop, instead. This was only the second time the two of us had been completely alone together, and I was almost overcome by a vibrant tingling sensation that had every inch of my skin aching to touch her. Though I've never been especially comfortable in elevators—something about its resemblance to cell in a mental-asylum—if there had ever been a time I wished for one to break down mid-transit, this was it.
As we began to rise, I listened to the soft jazz playing through the elevator's speakers and considered asking Jessica to dance with me again after our missed opportunity on the boat. Though I had formulated the exact way in which I would ask her in my mind, the words became trapped in my throat, and there they stayed. I spent the rest of the elevator ride and the walk to our rooms quietly kicking myself for my cowardice.
"Here we are. It looks like we're sharing a wall."
Unlocking her door, I watched as Jessica set her bag at the foot of her bed—adorned in white silk sheets and a dozen overstuffed pillows—sighed and sat down.
"I'm so tired. I think I'm going to go to take a nice, hot bath, and go to bed."
"You want company?" I asked.
"Very funny, Grant. Not tonight."
Her using my first name brought an unconscious smile to my face: I'd never liked the sound of it as much as when it came from her lips. I began to close the door, but stopped and peeked my head back in.
"You know, Jessica, Perry Rothko is a worthless piece of shit."
Raising an eyebrow at me mischievously, she leaned sideways across the bed, cocked her head, and said, "Why do you say that?"
"We've got a history together, and I see him for what he really is."
"And what is he?"
"A womanizer, a liar, and a no-talent hack who's made a living stealing from those who have rightfully earned it."
She only smiled.
"Are you jealous, Grant?"
"I'm not jealous. Just concerned for your wellbeing."
Tossing her hair, she smiled. "Well thank you, but I could tell that he was no good from the beginning. I was just flirting with him to get to you. Did it work?"
I rubbed the back of my neck and grinned.
"Yep, yep it did."
After exchanging goodnights, I closed the door softly, swiped my keycard at my door, and, pushing through, unlaced my still-soggy shoes and flung them across the room. After a cursory examination of the mini-bar's contents—deciding I wasn't as hungry as I was bored—I stepped into the bathroom and splashed my face with cold water. Though physically exhausted, my ongoing consumption of caffeine and booze made sleep out of the question for the near future. The whites of my eyes were covered in spider webs of broken blood vessels, and my eyelids felt as though they were locked open.
It suddenly occurred to me that I had never asked Harold about the thugs who were ready to take his hand in the bar bathroom back in Seoul, so I slipped into the hallway and knocked on his door.
"Harry?"
I knocked a little louder, and, seeing that the door had been left ajar, went inside.
Though Sang-hee and Dae were already asleep in the room’s king-sized bed, a giant LCD television whispering the details of a late-night reality show from the wall, Harold was gone.
Dashing to a window overlooking the street and sweeping aside the curtain, I looked out in time to see him hailing a taxi, his black duffel bag slung over a shoulder.
Where the hell is he off to now?
Sprinting into the hotel lobby and shouldering my way through the front doors, I caught only a glimpse of my friend as he climbed into a green Hyundai taxi. Waving down a taxi of my own, this one driven by a boy no older than 16, I plunged into the backseat and shouted for him to follow. The driver held his hand out expectantly. Digging into my pocket for my wallet, I slapped a $100 bill into his hand. It was all I had. After a brief examination of the cash, the driver squeaked excitedly, "Sure thing, boss!"
As we pulled behind Harold's car, I began to consider what I was doing. Completely broke, I was driving after my friend in a city I had never visited, without any idea where he was going or why. Noticing a chill in my toes, I realized I had run out without my shoes, too.
Crossing a bridge suspended over murky water, the car ahead of us suddenly accelerated—leaving us a half-mile behind. Panicking, I urged my young driver to keep up.
I spent a tense moment unsure of where the car ahead of us had gone before noticing the vehicle exiting along a sweeping roundabout. Not to be undone by another driver, especially with $100 in his pocket, the young man hammered the accelerator, swinging us onto an off-ramp and around a circular drive. Our taxi's suspension groaned eerily, the car on the verge of losing traction and rolling. Emerging onto a straightaway, the boy turned to me and smiled—a large gap between his front teeth.
"See? I earn your money!"
"Yeah, almost. Just get me to where they're going…wait, pull over here."
Stopping before a temple—a conspicuously traditional-looking building hidden between towering high rises and skyscrapers—my friend emerged from the back seat of his taxi.
"Wait here for me."
"It'll cost you. I wait here, I miss out on other fares."
"I just gave you a hundred bucks for a two-minute taxi ride, you thief," I said incredulously.
"You want me to wait or not?" He replied smugly.
Clenching my jaw, I mumbled, "That's fine. Just wait here, will ya? Please?"
Creeping after Harold, I slipped along the sidewalk and through the decorative arches leading to the temple courtyard.
The building was almost completely dark; only a few strands of red paper lanterns shed dim golden crowns of light across the central courtyard. The building was crafted in the Chinese tradition; each corner of the rooftop flared up as though a giant had taken an otherwise level ceiling and tugged on each edge.
Stumbling my way through the dark, I stepped into a row of waist-high bonsai trees where I could keep an eye on my friend and still stay somewhat hidden. The ground was muddy, and I could feel the moisture soaking through the thin fabric of my socks.
Hanging the strap of his bag around the neck of a stone Buddha statue, Harold reached into his shirt pocket, withdrew a cigarette, and began patting his coat in search of his lighter.
What if he's here to rob the place? I thought. The building was sure to be filled with religious artifacts or golden statues, and the apparent lack of security wasn't much of a disincentive. Maybe that was what he had been asking about on the boat.
It occurred to me as I sat there, feeling and smelling the mud slipping between my toes, that I wasn't in a position to do anything to stop him, even if he was there for such a purpose. If Harold wanted to rob t
he temple, or light it on fire, or dance around it naked, that was his prerogative. I wasn't his babysitter. That was Jessica's job. And if I had just stayed at the hotel, I might have been able to convince said babysitter to share that bath after all.
"You brought the money?" a voice called out from the darkness.
I strained to catch sight of the stranger who had called out to my friend. Nodding, Harold leaned back against the statue and crossed his legs, patting the black bag.
"No one blinked an eye. I've told you before, the system is perfect. It's a violation of international law to open a diplomatic pouch without my approval. And a diplomatic pouch is whatever the fuck I say it is."
I slid against the mustard-yellow temple wall sullenly. Now I wished he had just come here with intent to burglarize.
"You sold it all, correct?"
Harold laughed and rubbed his cigarette out on the statue's eye.
"Those fucking Koreans, man. They love their crazy medicine. I moved more Yaba in a week than you would have sold in a month over here."
Though I had no idea what Yaba was, it was clear that my friend was not behaving himself. I knew Harold seldom lived a life of moral or legal righteousness, but I never could have predicted his using his father's diplomatic immunity as a means to become an international drug smuggler. It was suddenly very clear why he'd been attacked in the bathroom in Seoul. He had, in a predictable display of Harry-esque recklessness, been carelessly selling drugs on another gang's turf. The pirates, too, were more likely hit men sent to find my old roommate than seafaring vandals.
"I'm afraid, Mr. Chamberlain, that Shanghai has fallen victim to the capricious tendencies of the West. Our clients are becoming more interested in the trendy designer drugs of Hollywood than our product."
"Is that what your boys are using as an excuse these days? There's nothing wrong with the product—it's hot as ever. Here's your cut, I already took mine."
Tossing the bag into the dark, a few seconds passed before a soft grunt of disapproval came back from the shadows.
