Take-Out

by Rob Hart

  That, at least, was something to look forward to.

  Harold cut a hard left into a narrow stairwell. At the top of the stairs was a red door. He knocked and waited until an older woman wearing a green accountant’s visor opened it. She looked at him like he was a stray dog.

  “Gweilo,” she said under her breath.

  Which meant “white devil.”

  They sure knew how to make him feel welcome.

  Harold stepped into the main room, crowded with elderly Chinese immigrants, mostly from the Fuijan province, according to Wen. They were huddled around flimsy poker tables, playing pai gow and mah jong, the tiles clacking like insects. Nearly everyone was smoking, and with the windows boarded up, the smoke didn’t have much to do but collect into a heavy cloud that hung in the air.

  Harold crossed the room, turning sideways to slide through the thin pathways between chairs, and stepped into the back room, where the blackjack and poker tables were empty. They wouldn’t fill up for another few hours, at least.

  Mr. Mo was sitting at the small desk in the corner, a cigarette dangling from his lip, counting out a thick stack of money. Harold looked at the stack and his breath caught in his chest. They were high-denomination bills. A lot of them. He ran the math in his head. Just a quick guess, based on the thickness and the speed at which Mr. Mo was counting. There had to be at least ten grand there, maybe more.

  That was two months’ rent, his phone bill, and a few child support payments.

  It was enough to make the next few months of his life very comfortable.

  He thought about how easy it would be to pick up something heavy, lay it hard over Mr. Mo’s head. The man was often surrounded by young guys with ornate tattoos and cement faces. The Triad goons. None of them were here today. There was no one to defend him, just senior citizens who couldn’t be budged from their pai gow for anything short of a nuclear strike.

  Mr. Mo stopped counting and looked up.

  Did he know what Harold was considering? Harold felt dread bubbling in his stomach, threatening to escape his mouth and heave onto the floor.

  After what seemed like a full minute, Mr. Mo shrugged, as if to ask, What?

  “I’m on tonight?” Harold asked.

  Harold came in every day to ask, and Mr. Mo would tell him to work or not. Presumably, one day he would tell him he was done, but Harold had no idea how long the terms of the assignment were for. With a debt to the house of $25,000, he didn’t expect it would be anytime soon.

  Still, he held his breath. Prayed Mr. Mo would shoo him away, tell him never to return. Harold would give anything for that.

  But Mr. Mo nodded. That meant Harold was on duty.

  He crossed back through the smoke-filled room. Down the stairs and through the kitchen to the front of the restaurant, the smell of cigarettes clinging to his clothes. He sat at the small table in the corner by the register that no one else ever sat at, next to the fish tank filled with silver and orange fish floating through murky water. He opened the Chinese newspaper that was waiting and flipped through slowly, looking at the pictures.

  “CLAMS IN CHICKEN soup,” Mr. Mo said, placing a bag down in front of Harold.

  Clams in chicken soup. This one he remembered. It was a collection. The Chinese food container would be empty, and he would have to wait for something to be placed inside, then bring it back.

  Usually, the addresses he delivered to were within a ten-block radius of the restaurant, but this one was different. On Eighth Avenue, up in the 20s. It would take about forty minutes to walk there. That was too much. Though Harold was generally in favor of wasting time, he didn’t feel comfortable taking that long, so he headed for the F train, which would get him most of the way there.

  He was happy to see there weren’t any cops down in the station. No one in the token booth, either. He stood by the gate for five minutes before a mother pushing a stroller came through. He reached over to hold it for her as she maneuvered the stroller out, and he ducked in before it closed.

  Seeing the stroller made his chest ache. Cindy was older now, six or seven by his best guess. He only ever remembered her as small enough to push around in a carriage. Back before Marguerite changed the locks and left a packed suitcase outside the apartment door for him to find one morning, when he finally mustered the courage to stumble home.

  As he waited for the train, the ache in Harold’s chest grew bigger. He promised himself that when this gig with Mr. Mo was done, he would make the changes he needed to make.

  Get treatment for his addiction.

  Find a steady job.

  Take those tiny little baby steps that, once accumulated, would maybe allow him to see his daughter again. He knew things would never be the same, knew he could never make up for it entirely. But he was sure he could at least make things better than this.

  ANOTHER NARROW STAIRWAY, another red door. This one had a small security camera mounted to the ceiling above it. Harold looked into the bulbous eye before knocking on the sign that said “Red Spa 22” on a white sign in red lettering.

  Red was a color of good luck. This is also why Chinese take-out containers had red script on them, even though they were an American invention. More trivia, courtesy of Wen.

  The door opened and a petite woman peeked out. She was barefoot, wearing a slinky black dress, her hair pulled back into a tight bun. Older, odd strands of hair gone gray, but she had the energy and smile of a young woman. She reached for Harold’s hand, pulled him inside.

  There was a main room with a desk, and, to Harold’s left, a long hallway with six doors. The lighting was dim and soft music played from hidden speakers. He was pretty sure it was DeBussy’s Clair de lun, the delicate piano notes falling around them like raindrops. The woman smiled and snapped her fingers. Another door opened, this time to the right, and three girls came out. All of them much younger. All smiling and done up for a night on the town, also barefoot.

  “You choose favorite,” the woman said.

  Harold shook his head. “No, no. Delivery.”

  He held up the bag, tried to hide how nervous he was, because the women were pretty and it had been a long time since he’d been around a pretty woman, let alone several.

  “Mr. Mo,” he said.

  The woman’s smile disappeared. She snapped her fingers again and the women disappeared, too. She took the bag from Harold and walked to the desk. Took out the Chinese food container and filled it with rolled-up wads of cash.

  When she was done she could barely close it, but she managed to get the flaps down and placed it back in the bag and handed it to Harold. She was robotic now, all business. She quickly moved around him and opened the door. Harold stepped into the hallway and she closed it. The deadbolt scratched as it slid into place.

  Harold made it down to the sidewalk and stood under the awning of the fried chicken restaurant on the first floor of the building. It was starting to rain, fat drops smacking the pavement. He clutched the bag to his chest.

  Thought about the money.

  Not as much as Mr. Mo had earlier in the day, but still, it looked like a lot.

  Maybe enough?

  Harold took out his cell and dialed Wen. He’d never called Wen before, only texted, so when Wen answered, his “What’s up?” was weighted with surprise and concern.

  “Just had a question I needed to run by you,” Harold said. “Some advice.”

  “Okay. Shoot.”

  “Mr. Mo. How dangerous is he, exactly?”

  “Ah.” Wen laughed. “Let me guess. You’re running some money for him right now? And you’re thinking of taking off?”

  “Can you blame me?”

  Pause. “Listen, just do the job like you’re supposed to.”

  “How would he even find me?”

  “Jeez, Harold. You don’t want to mess with this guy. I know it’s tempting, but look, I know you’re trying to make good right now. This isn’t the way to do it. Besides, I wouldn’t be surprised if he has someone keep
ing an eye on you right now. So get the hell off the phone and get back to the restaurant.”

  Harold’s heart skipped around in his chest. He surveyed the street. It was late, and most passersby were young people, stumbling home or headed to the next bar. But across the street was a man leaning against a parking meter, smoking a cigarette, wearing a gray hoodie, the hood pulled up over his head so his face was cast in shadow.

  He wasn’t looking at Harold but he was looking in Harold’s direction.

  “Okay,” Harold said. “Thanks, Wen.”

  “You’ll be fine. Remember, I had to do this once, too. It’ll all be over soon. Maybe I can talk to him. See if we can speed things along.”

  Relief washed over Harold. “Thank you. I would really appreciate it.”

  “Hey, what are friends for?” Wen asked.

  Harold hung up. Looked across the street and saw the man was still there, still looking in his direction. Harold stepped to the curb and hailed a cab. He didn’t want to spend the money, but thought it would be better for his overall health to hurry back.

  AS SOON AS Harold walked in the door, Mr. Mo handed him another bag.

  “Crispy skin fish rolls,” he said.

  Another pear, then. A little depressing, but easy enough.

  This address was close. The rain had picked up on the cab ride over. Harold walked closer to the buildings, ducking under awnings to stay out of it, not doing a great job. By the time he got to the address, he was nearly soaked.

  There was a Chinese grocery on the first floor. It reeked of fish. An older couple sprayed down the empty display cases out front, foamy water running into the street.

  Harold found the door propped open and climbed to the second floor, his shoes squeaking and squishing on the steps. He knocked on the green-painted metal door. It flung open and a young Chinese man with spiked hair and black plastic glasses looked at him with confusion and, upon seeing the bag, rolled his eyes.

  The man tore the bag from Harold’s hands, opened it, and took out the container, letting the bag fall to the floor. He opened the container and took out the pear, took a deep breath, and threw it at Harold’s chest as he yelled something in Chinese.

  The pear thumped hard enough to make Harold wince. He took a step back and put up his hands. “I’m sorry, I don’t understand…”

  The man threw out his fist. Harold moved to the side and it glanced off his head, knocking his glasses to the floor. He stumbled over his own feet and fell to the ground as the man drove his foot into Harold’s head. Harold put his arms up, tried to protect himself as the man threw his foot into him, again and again.

  After a dozen or so kicks, the man spat and went inside the apartment, slamming the door. Harold searched for his glasses, and was happy to find they were still intact. Waves of pain pummeled his body and he was content to lie on the linoleum tile for a few minutes until the worst of it subsided, but he changed his mind when he saw a fat, shiny roach scuttling toward him.

  MR. MO SAT at his desk, cigarette dangling from lip, as Harold told him what happened. After Harold finished, Mr. Mo continued to stare at him, like there was more story to tell. Harold shrugged and let his arms flop down to his sides.

  Mr. Mo took the cigarette out of his mouth, tapped the end of it into the overflowing ashtray on the desk, and nodded. Harold wondered if Mr. Mo even understood half of what he said. It never seemed like he did.

  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 spirit. 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 weeknights.

  Wen responded with an offer to bring him to a gambling den on Mulberry Street.

  Harold was nervous from the get. He 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 l
ooked 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.