Extremities: Stories of Death, Murder, and Revenge

by David Lubar

  As we squeezed through the crowded streets, I scanned the food shops. You never knew what you’d see hanging from a hook or heaped up in a crate.

  “Hey, Andy, check out the baby eels,” John said, pointing to the window of a grocery store.

  “Whoa, you eat those things?” I leaned over and watched the wriggling black strips in their water-filled pan. They reminded me of living rubber bands.

  John shook his head. “My parents might. Not me. Too slithery.”

  A flurry of motion in a high-sided enamel tray to the left of the eels caught my eye. My subconscious survival instinct must have taken over, because by the time I realized what was there, I’d already jerked my face away from the window.

  “Whoa!” I took a step back and pointed.

  “Man, that’s creepy.” John leaned closer, so his forehead was pressed against the window. “I don’t think my parents would eat one of those. Maybe my grandfather.”

  Still keeping my distance from the window, I stared at the panful of scorpions as they crawled over one another, forming a mass like one living creature with hundreds of claws and stinging tails. “Would you?” I asked.

  “Not for a million dollars. But you got to admit you white boys eat some pretty disgusting things, too.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like rare steak,” John said. “It makes me think of those medical shows on TV. You slice through a slab of quivering meat with the knife, and the blood leaks out all over the plate. Nurse! Hand me the steak sauce! Hurry—he’s bleeding out! Disgusting. And what about tuna salad?” He jammed a finger down his throat and made gagging sounds. “Now, that’s something no civilized person would eat.”

  “It’s still better than eating it raw,” I said.

  “You idiot. That’s Japanese, not Chinese. You are so culturally uninformed.”

  “Excuse me, you all look alike. What can I say?”

  “Not much,” John shot back, “considering you bear an uncanny resemblance to a peeled potato.”

  It was a good thing the people passing by weren’t listening. They might have thought we were serious. No way. I’d been friends with John since he moved here back in fourth grade. That was seven years ago.

  “Come on,” John said. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a handful of quarters. “We’ll settle this like real men—head to head at the arcade.”

  As I turned away from the grocery, another motion caught my eye. The storekeeper stepped up to the inside of the window, snatched an angry scorpion from the pan with a pair of wooden tongs, and dropped it into a small cardboard box—the kind they use for takeout food. He handed the box to a customer. That’s where I got my second surprise. From what little I could see through the dirty glass, the man wasn’t Chinese.

  Why would anyone buy a scorpion? I waited for the man to walk out so I could get a clearer look.

  “Come on, Andy, let’s get going,” John said.

  “Just a second.” I had to see what he looked like. Maybe I’d even ask him why he’d bought it. Ever since I was little, I’ve been curious about stuff. I guess that’s a nice way to say “nosy.” Dad used to joke that I’d either end up as a scientist or a spy. Mom hammered me all through my early years with that saying about curiosity killing the cat. I’m pretty sure she’s told me, “It’s not polite to stare,” at least seven thousand times.

  It would be seven thousand one if she were here on the sidewalk right now. I couldn’t help staring at the man when he stepped from the store—not because of what he’d bought, but because of what he lacked. His skin was as white as the carton he carried. So was his hair, which he wore long and parted in the middle. His eyes were pink. I’d seen albino animals before, but never a person.

  He stared back at me. I was too transfixed by the layers of strangeness to look away. Then he lifted the box and shook it in my face. The scorpion rattled against the cardboard.

  That broke the spell. I jumped aside.

  He laughed and moved past me. After a few paces, he looked back over his shoulder, shook the box again, and smiled, revealing yellowed teeth. Then he slithered into the crowd.

  “That was pretty much the strangest thing I expect to see this week,” John said. “It’s going to be hard for me to think of you as a white boy after this.”

  “You think he’ll eat it?” I shuddered at the thought of him popping the living scorpion in his mouth and crunching it up like a piece of peanut brittle.

  John shrugged. “Who knows?”

  “What else would he do with it? I mean, he just bought one, so I think it’s safe to say he isn’t having the gang over for a scorpion fry.”

  “Maybe some kind of medicine,” John said. “People use all kinds of strange stuff—snake venom, animal claws, just about anything. When my aunt’s shoulder hurts, she rubs this brown liquid on it. She keep the stuff in a jar with a couple of huge beetles and all kinds of roots.”

  “That’s really weird,” I said.

  “So is using mold to kill bacteria,” John said. “Or tree bark to cure a headache.”

  “Okay—you’ve got a point. But at least molds and trees don’t feel pain. I’m not all that worried about beetles, either. But I heard they’re wiping out the rhino just for the horn.”

  “It’s supposed to be an aphrodisiac,” John said.

  “You mean an Asian-disiac,” I said, trying to make a joke.

  John groaned. “Anyhow, that’s what they use it for. They swear it helps them get horny.”

  It was my turn to groan. “How appropriate.” As we walked toward the arcade, I thought about the sad state of a world where people would kill a rhinoceros just for the horn. My deep thoughts lasted less than a block and a half. Once we reached the arcade, my whole mind and body were centered on kicking John’s butt at Shock Fighter Deluxe. Unfortunately, John was pretty centered, too. So, as usual, my fighter ended up on the ground while various parts of his body flew in separate paths through the air, leaving crimson trails of veins like dozens of scarlet tadpoles.

  “Again?” John asked, grinning at me while the CONTINUE? timer counted down and his player tap-danced a victory celebration on the scattered remains of my inept warrior’s innards.

  “Nah, I’d better get home. If I’m late for dinner, Dad will make what we just did look like a pillow fight.”

  “Later,” John said, moving off toward the pinball machines.

  I left the arcade and cut through an alley toward the bus stop on Third Street. That’s when I saw the albino again, just ahead of me. Halfway down the alley, he ducked into a narrow pathway between two buildings. I walked up to the opening and peeked around the wall. The albino was standing by a solid steel door at the end of the path, about fifteen feet away from me. It looked like the back entrance to some sort of business. He opened the carton and reached inside. The scorpion wriggled and slashed as it hung between his right thumb and forefinger.

  He dropped the carton, then put the scorpion on his left palm. He stroked it gently with the tips of his first two fingers. I expected it to make a dash for freedom, or plunge its stinger into his palm, but it sat where he’d placed it, unmoving.

  I watched, as frozen as the scorpion.

  For a moment, what I saw was so strange, I didn’t realize I was seeing anything at all. The images passed through my eyes and entered my brain. But they hung there like abstract forms—shapes with no meaning. His left hand changed. Somehow, it curved and shrank and drew toward his sleeve. The scorpion on his palm withered and shriveled like a leaf on an unwatered houseplant.

  There was something beyond strange here, something unnatural and evil.

  He raised his right hand and knocked at the door.

  A minute passed. As much as I was dying to know what this was about, I found myself hoping nobody would answer.

  I heard the clack of a bolt sliding open.

  Whoever came out would see me. I stepped back into the alley, then squatted down so I could peek around the wall.


  A middle-aged Chinese man wearing an expensive light gray suit stood in the doorway. He spat out a couple of words. I had no idea what he was saying, but he sounded angry.

  The albino spoke, also in Chinese. Once or twice he touched the other man with his right hand. He seemed to be trying to calm him down.

  The Chinese man spoke again. His face softened a bit and he stepped out from the doorway. He smiled and nodded.

  The albino slipped closer and put his left arm on the other man’s shoulder. His hand was still hidden within his sleeve.

  I realized I was holding my breath. I exhaled, then inhaled quickly, gasping. To me, the sound was as loud as a shout, but neither of them looked my way.

  A pale shaft emerged from the albino’s sleeve. It slid into the other man’s neck like a pump needle into a football.

  For an instant, the victim didn’t seem to notice he’d been stabbed. Then his mouth opened as if he wanted to shout. His hands rose toward his neck.

  They never got there. His body jerked like he’d grabbed a frayed power cord. His eyes rolled back. His knees buckled. A sigh drifted from his slackening jaw. He would have fallen, had he not been pinned to that dagger. The killer finally lowered his arm, and his victim slid free, dropping to the street. His head bounced once against the pavement, the thud echoing between the buildings like an exclamation point.

  I had no doubt he was dead.

  As the albino turned away from the corpse, I ran out of the alley. People stared at me as I rushed away from Chinatown. The crowds actually parted as I passed among them. I must have stunk with fear. I felt I was leaving a trail.

  I kept checking over my shoulder, but I didn’t see the albino. He probably never knew I’d watched him.

  Or maybe he didn’t care.

  The rest of the day seemed to take place at a distance. I know I ate dinner and went to bed, but part of me never left that alley. My first thought when I woke up was that I’d had some sort of vivid dream.

  Unfortunately, I couldn’t explain away my experience that easily. The murder made the paper. Next to last page. But nobody knew it was a murder. The article merely said that Shaoming Li, owner of the Golden Dragon Novelty Supply Company, was found dead of an apparent heart attack. The body was discovered by an employee.

  I called John. “We gotta talk.”

  “It’s not even noon. Can’t it wait?” He sounded like he was still half-asleep.

  “No. It’s important.”

  “Okay. I’m awake now. Thanks to you. Come on over.”

  I thought about the alleys and the scorpions. “How about you come here?”

  There was a pause. Then a click. He’d hung up. But that was okay. I knew he was on his way over. That’s the kind of friend he was.

  When John got to my place, I showed him the paper. “Did you know this guy?”

  “Sure. Everybody knew Li. He’s one of the three main import-export guys.” John winked, then said, “Import-export,” again, as if it was a secret code.

  The wink told me nothing. “I don’t have a clue what you mean.”

  “Anything you want to bring into the country, Li was the man to see. Tiger paws, bear gall bladders, ivory—you name it. He was deep into all kinds of traffic.”

  “How do you know?”

  “People talk. And they never pay any attention to me. They act like I’m just a kid. I hear stuff. But it’s no secret. It’s the same all over. Any part of the city, you’ll find a couple of guys doing import-export. Chinese, Russian, Mexican, Irish. Crime is multicultural. I’m sure some of your Czech relatives or neighbors are involved in something.”

  “I’m not Czech. I’m Polish. And only half that.”

  “All you Slavs look alike to me,” John said. “Anyhow, why this sudden interest? And what does any of this have to do with me getting robbed of sleep?”

  “I saw something.” That sounded like such an empty description.

  “What?”

  “You wouldn’t believe me.” I wasn’t sure I really believed it myself.

  “I might. Now that I’m awake. You got anyone better to tell?”

  He was right. I told him. Sharing it, crazy as the whole thing had been, was a relief.

  “You saw this for sure?” John asked after I finished the story. “You weren’t that close, were you?”

  “I was close enough.” As I thought back, doubt invaded my memories. “It looked like a scorpion stinger. But maybe he just had something in his hand. I guess it could have been a long needle, or an ice pick. Or maybe some kind of knife.”

  “Forget it,” John told me. “That’s best. Just forget it. So what if he was killed? Do you think Li was some innocent businessman? I’m sure he had plenty of blood on his hands. Andy, these guys don’t just import animal parts. They bring in guns. They bring in drugs. Maybe someone was just doing the world a favor.”

  I had no idea what I was supposed to do. I was the only one besides the killer who knew Shaoming Li’s death was a murder. Normally, if you witness a murder, you have to speak out. It’s the right thing to do. The tell us that in school. They tell us that in the movies and on TV. They tell us that in novels and comic books. But, right or wrong, there was no way anyone would believe me. I’m pretty sure John didn’t. And there was no way I wanted the albino to learn that I was a witness. Maybe John was right. It was best for me to forget all about it. Or maybe I was just a coward, looking for an excuse. I decided it wouldn’t hurt to think things over before I made a decision.

  I was wrong.

  * * *

  The next murder happened two days later. Hop Ngo was found in the back of his restaurant. This death attracted a bit more attention than Shaoming Li’s, though nobody knew it was a murder. Still, it was a vicious enough death that reporters swarmed all over the story. According to the paper, Hop Ngo had been attacked by his own dogs. The paper mentioned one strange item discovered at the scene. Along with a pair of live pit bulls, police found a third dog. But this one was a dried-up husk.

  I was disturbed enough to track John down when he didn’t answer his phone. His sister Katie, who was two years older than John, and two light-years better looking, let me in. I went to his room and held up the paper.

  “There’s been another killing.”

  John pulled the pillow over his face. “Are you going to wake me up every time someone from around here dies? Because if you are, I’m never going to get any sleep.”

  I yanked the pillow away and thrust the paper in his face. “Is this guy an importer?”

  John sighed and took the paper from me. “Yeah. Hop Ngo was an importer. Different front operation, but he brought in the same kind of stuff as Li. They each had their own territory.”

  “It wasn’t an accident,” I said. “It wasn’t his own dogs that killed him.”

  I could picture everything in my mind like it was a silent movie: It’s late at night. The restaurant is closed, but Ngo is available for other business. The albino comes in. He brings a dog with him. Or maybe he grabs one of Hop Ngo’s dogs. He presses the dog to his face and starts to change. His head becomes—

  “Hey, Earth to Andy.”

  “Huh?” I realized John had been talking to me. “What?”

  “Wow, you were drifting off toward elsewhere,” John said. “Let it go. This has nothing to do with you. It doesn’t even have anything to do with me. These guys live and die by their own rules.”

  “No. I can’t let it go. This is about more than murder.” I hated the thought of sharing my universe with a creature like that. “You said there were three importers. We have to warn the third guy.”

  “I’m sure he knows something’s going on.” John said, “Everyone in town is going to notice that two importers died.”

  “But he doesn’t know about this creature. I have to warn him there’s a killer stalking him.”

  “Sam Yung wouldn’t listen to you,” John said.

  “Sam Yung,” I said, repeating the name.

  J
ohn groaned. “Man, forget the name. Please. He won’t see you. You won’t get near him. He’s big trouble. He eats kids like us for snacks.”

  “I have to try.” I walked out of John’s bedroom. Behind me, I heard him running to catch up.

  “Okay, just wait a sec while I throw on some clothes. Maybe I can at least keep you from getting your throat slit while you try to find Sam. You’re already pale enough.”

  “Thanks.” I was glad he was coming.

  We went into the depths of Chinatown to find the last of the big three importers. Unlike the other two, he didn’t have one main front operation. I let John do the talking. We got yelled at a lot, and even spit at once. I didn’t know if it was because we were asking about Sam Yung or because I was with John. But he was right—nobody takes kids seriously. Even kids old enough to drive and shave never get any respect.

  We kept trying. If you knock on enough doors, eventually, you hear an answer. In the end, we didn’t find Sam. It wasn’t necessary. One of Sam’s men found us.

  This guy in a cheap brown suit, black shirt, and white tie slipped up from behind and tapped John on the shoulder. They talked in Chinese. Then John said, “Sam wants to know why we’re looking for him. I told this guy that we had private business to discuss, concerning Sam’s safety. He’s taking us there. He said that if we annoy Sam, we’ll end up tied to a couple of rocks at the bottom of the Naugus River. The fish will eat our eyes, and the turtles will dine on our tongues.”

  “Thanks for sharing that.” I wondered how many different kinds of monsters I was dealing with. Maybe the ones who never shifted their shape were even worse than the unnatural killers.

  It was too late to back out. We followed the guy down a maze of side streets toward an old, rickety building. There was no sign in any language out front—just a street number. We went inside, then climbed stairs that creaked beneath our weight. The banister was loose under my hand. I could swear I felt the building shifting under me. I smelled stale food on the first floor, but something darker and exotic took over as we moved past the second floor, up to the third.