by Nate Granzow
"You've taken some substantive liberties, Mr. Chamberlain."
Crossing his arms defensively, my friend retorted, "I'm putting in more effort and moving more product than any of your idiot lackeys are here, and I'm taking a proportionate cut. You understand the concept?"
"You don't seem to understand how this works, Mr. Chamberlain. I make the rules. I produce the product. And most importantly, I take all the risk. A spoiled white boy like you wouldn't spend more than a few days in lockup if you were caught. I would be summarily put to death. You are paid according to how much you stand to lose. And you stand to lose very little."
Pointing his finger into the darkness accusingly, Harold spat back, "You pompous piece of shit, you need me. And you'll start respecting my role in this or I'll take my services elsewhere. Understand?"
"I understand one thing perfectly, Mr. Chamberlain. I understand that you are too much of a liability to be of service to me in your current capacity. But I think you can help me once more."
From both sides of the courtyard rushed half a dozen men.
"I'll be interested to see how much you're worth to your father." The voice said distantly.
Though Harold reached into his coat pocket and withdrew a gleaming nickel-plated handgun, the attackers were upon him before he could get a shot off.
Though it shames me a bit to think of it now, at no time did I even consider rushing from my hiding place to help him. He was in too deep. I could only watch as my friend was driven to the rain-covered stone, kicked and beaten until he stopped resisting. His attackers lifted him by his wrists and ankles, his body swinging lifelessly as they stepped toward the street and the open trunk of a black Mercedes sedan idling nearby.
15
Busted
Dashing from my hiding place in the bushes, I made for my taxi, praying it was still waiting for me. A wave of despair engulfed me as I looked down the empty street.
The little bastard left me.
My soaked feet left muddy imprints on the asphalt as I jogged down the center of the road. Running my hands through my hair, I was suddenly blinded by headlights. Hidden behind a rolling metal dumpster, my taxi-driving friend pulled the car into the street and rolled his window down.
"Where we going now?"
"I thought you had left me, little man."
"You told me to wait. So I wait. But you follow those men, so I hide the car."
"Very smart," I opened the passenger-side door and slid in. "Pull around the block slowly, and follow them again."
A perturbed expression crossed the driver's face.
"You smell bad."
Looking to my feet, he became enraged.
"You leave mud on my car! You pay double!"
"Fine," I yelled, gesturing furiously. "Go!"
Tires squealed as our target hastily exited the scene. My driver pounded the accelerator and we pulled after them, weaving through traffic and ignoring street signs. Arriving at a red light, both our vehicles stopped. One of the thugs leapt from the back seat and jogged into a nearby filling station parking lot. I breathed a sigh of relief; I was certain they had figured out we were following them, and had sent one of their men to come shoot us as we waited for the light to change. But my relief was cut short as a bus in the lane beside us began merging, cutting off our pursuit as it clumsily navigated its way into the lane.
"Get around him!" I yelled, slapping my driver's shoulder.
Honking the horn and waving his fisted hand, my young friend spun the wheel, gassing and braking to no avail. There was little else I could do but watch as my friend was driven away—vanishing into the largest city in the world. Finding a kidnap victim amidst 23 million people packed into the 2,500 square miles that comprised Shanghai would be nothing short of impossible.
"Let me out, kid."
"You pay for mud," he insisted, pointing at the floor.
I tossed him my credit card, told him to buy something nice, and exited the car. It had reached its credit limit a month ago, anyway.
My feet still weren't dry, and this sudden upsetting turn of events had been the final straw; provoking my transition from anxious and uncertain to unreservedly enraged. I marched into the gas station parking lot. The thug from the captors' car stood with his back to me as he made a call at the payphone. Grabbing the man by the back of his head, I smashed his face against the metal encasement. Dragging him around to the darker side of the building where we wouldn't be seen, I grabbed his collar and slapped his face, splashing blood from his shattered nose onto the building's brick wall.
"Where are they going?"
His mouth hung open as he narrowly clung to consciousness. I had knocked out one of his teeth, too.
"Fuck…you."
Gripping his broken nose between the knuckles on my pointer and middle finger, I gave a firm twist.
"Last chance, asshole."
"Pudong, warehouse five, near waterfront," he cried out, writhing in pain.
"Thanks."
I let him drop to the pavement and began to walk away when a voice called out behind me.
"You, stop! Police!"
I'd rather not get into the multitudinous reasons why my first instinct, upon hearing the word 'police' and 'stop' in the same sentence, was to run in the opposite direction from where it came. But run I did.
Like a barefoot Olympic hurdler, I set out down the nearest alley, leapt over a puddle of sewage, skirted around a trashcan, and jumped halfway up a chain link fence—flipping myself over in one semi-fluid motion. Landing heavily on my ass, I turned to see my pursuer, a much more agile policeman than I'd been familiar with back in the States, doggedly sprinting after me. As I resumed my run, I could hear the metallic clang and rattle as he hit the fence behind me, followed by the dull clamp of his feet hitting the dirt-covered pavement on the other side.
I don't consider myself a particularly adept runner. In fact, the only times I've embraced the sport have been precipitated by me being shot at, or, as was the case here, my being chased by something or someone with intent to harm me.
I've learned two essential facts from these experiences. First, it doesn't pay to rely on your physical prowess to save you—even if you're a marathon runner, radios and bullets are faster than you are. Instead, it's best to make separation from your pursuer as quickly as possible and find a place to either hide or blend in.
Second, don't bother looking behind you when you're being chased, even though you'll instinctively want to. If your pursuer is gaining on you, looking at them won't make them slow down, nor will it propel you forward any faster. Taking your eyes off your path will only get you one thing: clotheslined on a low-hanging branch or beam.
Hearing my pursuer's footsteps getting closer and his not-nearly-winded-enough voice yelling into his radio, I leapt for a low-hanging fire escape. My wrists smacked against the rungs of the ladder, and I scrambled my way up, the cop following close behind.
If I wanted to get away, I was going to have to do something extreme. I made my way up one more flight of stairs, the policeman only steps away. Arriving at the top, I looked below and spotted an open dumpster filled to the brim with cardboard boxes. I only hoped there wasn't a collection of discarded bricks or steel fence posts beneath it.
Reaching the uppermost platform, the policeman stopped a few feet away from me and raised a hand signaling for me to stop. I smiled at him, leapfrogged the railing, and, like a movie scene where the cornered protagonist leaps off a cliff to escape, plunged feet-first into the dumpster. Like riding over a rollercoaster's tallest hill, my stomach hiked up toward my esophagus as I fell through the cool night air.
An immediate sense of relief rushed over me as I felt the cardboard give way—my weight compacting the trash until my feet touched the dumpster's bottom. Buried up to my neck, I scrambled to reach the top before my stunned pursuer could make it back down the stairs. Looking up at him, I noticed the policeman wasn't moving, but was, instead, laughing hysterically. Ignoring hi
s reaction to the obvious absurdity of my escape method, I climbed to the top of the dumpster and prepared to exit the scene as quickly as my tired legs could carry me.
Peeking over the edge, my heart stopped. The smiling faces of a dozen uniformed policemen greeted me. Behind them, the sign for the Shanghai police station glowed brightly upon the adjacent parking lot filled with squad cars.
16
The Hong Kong Kid
Shoved into a seat before a stainless steel table, a small chain, strung through the table's center, was woven through my handcuffs and locked into place. Across from me, a very tired-looking police officer pulled a pen from behind her ear and a stapled pamphlet from a pile.
"Name?"
"Grant Cogar. The Grant Cogar. I'm sure you've heard of me. The bank heist of '09? The robbery of the Beijing Museum of Modern Art? Maybe you know me by my alias: The Hong Kong Kid."
Without looking up from her paper, she asked, "Height?"
"Five-eleven, according to my wanted posters."
"Age?"
"Twelve. The facial hair is misleading; I'm really just an early bloomer."
"We'll say thirty. Weight?"
"Before or after a big meal?"
"Just tell me your weight, sir."
"Well it's a bit of a sensitive question, isn't it? But I suppose I can tell you since we've grown so close in the past few minutes. One seventy."
"Hair color—brunette," she mumbled without asking me. "Eye color?"
"Steel-gray. You can just write gunmetal. They'll know what it means."
"Blue, then."
"That's fine too, I guess," I said, craning my neck to look at the guard beside the door. He slouched as he cast a blank stare at the opposite wall. Behind him, a few cops strolling down the hall pointed through the glass and laughed. My attempted escape had unsurprisingly become the talk of the station. "I get the impression that we've gotten off on the wrong foot," I said, pushing my right hand forward in a gesture of an open handshake, the chain sliding loudly through the hole in the table.
She eyed it skeptically.
"I'm not really a criminal."
"I don't decide that," she said blankly, ignoring my outstretched hand and scraping her pen along the remaining blank spaces on the page. With a nod to the guard, I was unfastened from the table and led out of the room.
"You'll put in the good word for me, right?" I shouted over my shoulder.
Hours passed.
Seated on an uncomfortable steel-framed cot, I watched as my 300-pound gorilla of a cellmate dozed in a far corner, his cheek propped against the room's seat-less toilet. The half-serious advice I had heard about beating the hell out of the prison's biggest guy to establish dominance crept in and out of my mind. But the sweaty, boozy odor that emanated from the giant gave me a little reassurance that I might manage to get out before he awoke, and before I was forced to test its validity.
A jangling of keys had me on my feet with both hands on the cell bars. A policeman unlocked the door, his eyes on the comatose crook in the corner.
"Mr. Cogar, Ms. Carr has informed us that you are a member of Ambassador Chamberlain's diplomatic party. We apologize for the delay. You're free to go now."
Escorted through the lobby, I spotted Jessica standing near the door. Wearing her glasses, a pair of fuzzy white pajamas, and a pronounced frown, my phone call had clearly come at an unwelcome time. But I hadn't had time to explain the entire situation, either. If she thought she was pissed off now, she was in for a real surprise.
"Thanks for rescuing me again, Jess."
"Get in the car."
"I know you're mad, but—"
Stopping at the curb, she turned on the heel of her slipper and, crossing her arms, launched into a tirade.
"You're just like Harold, aren't you? It's bad enough that I have to watch him, but now I have to keep an eye on you, too? To think I believed all that bullshit you fed me about giving you a chance. This—this right here—is the reason I'm so guarded, Grant. Every time I open up to a guy, I'm left picking him up at the police station at two in the morning."
Unlocking the doors to a car unfamiliar to me, she slid into the driver's seat, graceful despite her mood, and turned the key.
"It'd be nice if you gave me a chance to explain," I said heatedly as I flopped onto the passenger seat.
Slamming the car door, she looked at me.
"Fine, explain."
I buckled my seatbelt and took a deep breath.
"Harry's been kidnapped. He left the hotel a few minutes after we got there, and I tailed him. As it turns out, here's a funny story, he's a drug dealer. I watched him get beaten up and taken by what I'd guess were his suppliers."
"No," she said matter-of-factly.
"What do you mean, 'no'? I wasn't asking if you were in the mood for tacos."
"I mean no, that can't be right. I would know if Harold was up to something like that."
"Well clearly neither of us knew. But that's what I saw go down just a couple hours ago," I said, turning the car's heater up. Standing on a concrete floor without shoes for hours had left me chilled.
"Why didn't you tell the police?"
"I tried. They don't listen very closely to people they arrest for assault and battery. And the fleeing and eluding charges didn't help, either," I mumbled. I didn't really want to explain the details leading to my incarceration. "Besides, you can't file a missing person report for at least 24 hours."
Slamming her palms against the steering wheel, frustrated tears filled her eyes.
"We'll never find him here. How could I be so stupid to agree to this trip?"
I touched her hand softly.
"I actually know where he is. That's where the assault and battery part came in."
Wiping her eyes, she looked at me as though in a panic.
"Then we need to go get him back."
Reaching into her purse, Jessica withdrew a handgun and racked its slide.
My jaw hung open. Apparently, it was all the rage to travel Southeast Asia fully armed. Thinking back to the yacht ride from Seoul, it suddenly occurred to me why everyone seemed so calm during the pirate attack. They were all packing heat. I wished I had known that before volunteering for a smashed forehead, a near miss with a fishing gaff, and half-drowning.
"What the fuck is that?"
"It's a nine-millimeter."
"Yes, I realize that, but why do you have it?"
"Because I'm not just Harold's assistant, I'm also the idiot's bodyguard."
I slouched in my seat.
"Bodyguard?"
"I served six years in the Australian military, then spent two years on a private security force before I was hired at the embassy."
Exhausted, I was slow to process the news. Though I probably appeared shocked, this wasn't really a surprise. Jessica radiated a distinct rigidity and sternness not unlike others I'd met with a background in military discipline. Had I focused a little less on her figure and a little more on her mannerisms, I might have considered that possibility.
"Well where did they take him?" she asked.
"Can we go back to the hotel first? I'd like to put shoes on," I whispered feebly, wiggling my toes against the crusted mud.
*******
As Jessica and I bustled into our rooms, Sang-Hee and Dae, dressed to the nines and clearly on their way back out into the city, stopped us.
"Where'd you guys go?" Dae said, chewing a piece of mint gum and obnoxiously snapping bubbles.
"We ran into some trouble. Actually, Harry ran into some trouble, and now we have to go get him out," I said, sitting at the edge of the bed as I slipped a clean sock over my foot.
Tossing her bangs in the large mirror in front of my bed, Sang-Hee replied coolly, "He probably got caught selling his drugs."
"Wait, you knew about it?"
"Of course. It wasn't as if it was a secret. I've even bought from him before."
Before I could stop her, Jessica moved her hand
to Sang-Hee's throat and began shaking her like a dog would a rag bone.
"You think this is funny? He could be killed you useless bush pig."
Dae pounced forward to protect her friend, a glimmer of violent rage in her eyes. Jessica slung Sang-Hee out of the way and assumed a boxer's stance, ready to fight. I quickly stepped between the two women, but my newfound awareness of Jessica's military background made me wonder who would have won the brawl had I not prevented it. And of course, being a man, the thought of the two beauties grappling piqued my imagination, too.
Pulling Jessica aside, I said quietly, "Getting mad at her isn't going to do us any good. Take a deep breath. We'll go get him back, okay?"
She pushed me away and made for her room.
Sang-Hee smoothed over her disheveled hair as Dae said, "Well you two have fun getting Harry back. We're going to the club." The incensed fury that she had shown seemed to dissipate instantly as she leapt on my bed and began bouncing toward the ceiling.
Ignoring her, I examined my phone. I hadn't checked it since we left Seoul, and during that time had missed three calls—all of them from Kailas. He'd be upset that I hadn't responded, but nowhere near the degree of unrestrained fury he'd unleash on me if I explained the situation. There wasn't much he could do about it, anyway.
17
Pudong Song
Everyone has different means of reacting to high stress situations. Not uncommonly, their fear or apprehension comes out in some physical tick. A nightly news television producer I once met had the bizarre habit of plucking a hair from his eyebrow any time he encountered something that made him nervous or uncomfortable. His bare brow made him look as though he had suffered a terrible pyrotechnic-related accident.
The tick I've had for many years, and one that seems to come to the surface whenever a particularly ugly situation presents itself and I have no alcohol to distract from it, is an incessant need to crack my knuckles. After years of doing this, squeezing my hand into a fist produces a series of pops and snaps comparable to gripping a roll of bubble-wrap.
