A Cello In Abstract

by Greg Arritt

  “We are criminals and one day the police will come for us,” he often lamented.

  Fangxu worked an old cloth over the handlebars and down the chrome forks of his motorcycle. He loved tearing through the country roads late at night as the bite of the cool air mixed with the sensation of speed. He had a job as a mechanic, but the pay was lousy. Every month was a struggle just to cover his expenses. He hated the intimidation, the violence, and the corruption that were so often a part of business. He hated his participation in the illegal dealing of the group, but the money wasn’t something he could ignore.

  “Hey, give me a cigarette?” Jie called to Fangxu.

  “You are always asking for one,” Fangxu responded as he stood back to survey his efforts. With a flick of his wrist, he snapped the cloth as if that alone would cleanse it of dirt and grease. Then he pulled a cigarette from the pack in his shirt pocket and handed it to Jie. “Why don’t you buy a pack? Hell, why don’t you buy me some? You’ve got money.”

  Jie could cause any girl’s heart to flutter with just a smile. His attractive looks, coupled with a beguiling appearance of innocence, were a combination that few girls could resist. There had been many sweethearts in his life, but none stayed for any length of time. Along the way he had discarded a few, but all the others had fled for their own well-being. They had managed to peel away the layers of his allure, exposing the real beast. His look of innocence concealed an absence of morality and an underlying baleful disposition. He carried a switchblade that had drawn blood on more than one occasion and he relished the idea of being feared. It was his callous behavior that continually unbalanced the cohesiveness of the group.

  “He doesn’t have any money! He spends it all on his girlfriends,” Weichao interjected.

  Weichao was always too quick with his mouth, and it had landed him in serious trouble more than once. Being aloof and overweight in addition to having poor hygiene made him something of an outsider, even from within the group. He just wasn’t a likeable individual. Aside from a lingering body odor, there was also an antisocial component to his behavior. The only thing more worrisome than his antisocial leanings was his ability to handle a motorcycle. There were the few outings when he handled his bike flawlessly, and yet a day later, he couldn’t seem to shift from one gear to another.

  Weichao didn’t care for his friends and they didn’t like him. Always sullen, he was easily angered. When it came to fighting, he wasn’t any good with his fists. He preferred to kick his opponent into submission. The other members would have gladly disassociated themselves from him except for one thing. He was the key to the fast money.

  “Why don’t you shut up and mind your own business!” Jie fired back at Weichao.

  “Don’t yell at him. He didn’t mean any harm,” Fangxu said to Jie, but it was too late to make any difference. Weichao was already fuming. He fired a kick at his bike and nearly knocked it off its stand.

  “What I do with my money is my business,” Jie said as if he were making a public proclamation.

  Qiang and Long sat on their bikes and watched as Jie and Weichao traded words. The situation soon dissipated and didn’t require any intervention on their part. So they ignored the others and returned to their own conversation.

  “A clean motorcycle always runs better,” Fangxu said in the direction of Weichao as he lit up a cigarette.

  “I don’t want to get dirty,” Weichao replied defensively, but his comment only elicited a group laugh at his expense. His daily uniform consisted of a soiled gray jumpsuit and heavy shoes. He liked to appear employed even if he wasn’t.

  “Too late, you’re always dirty,” Jie laughed. He wasn’t about to pass on an opportunity to needle Weichao.

  “Don’t be an asshole,” Long said, directing his comment at Jie.

  Jie pulled the switchblade from his pocket, pushed the button, and the blade snapped open. He concentrated his stare on Long as he deftly wielded the knife in his hand. Then he slapped the blade closed and returned the knife to his pocket.

  “One day Jie’s meanness and Weichao’s anger are going to cross paths and it will be bad for all of us,” Fangxu said.

  Qiang and Long shook their heads. That was a subject that no one really wanted to talk about. It was pretty much understood that if one of them were arrested it wouldn’t be long before all of them were found out by the police.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Joran carefully dabbed at his face with a hand towel, taking care not to apply any pressure to his nose. The bleeding had stopped, but clotted blood in his sinuses restricted his ability to breathe normally. He examined the bruised and swelling bump on the left side of his forehead, just at the hairline. Satisfied that the injury was not serious, he filled the sink with cold water and left his bloodied shirt to soak.

  A lukewarm shower washed away the dirt and dried blood, but it did little to assuage his bruised ego. He dried off and wrapped a towel around his waist. Most of the ice in the bucket had melted, but a smattering of cubes remained. He retrieved some scotch from the bar and made a drink for himself. Then he collapsed on an upholstered chair and began to reevaluate his situation.

  His confrontation with Redding had been ill conceived. He was right back where he’d started. He didn’t have the painting, nor did he have any idea where it was. The only thing he was sure of was who took it and what it would supposedly cost to get it back.

  He remembered the previous night. He had tried to rest, but sleep was nonexistent. He climbed out of bed after a miserable session of tossing and turning. Although it was only four in the morning, he dressed. He filled the ice bucket, poured himself a drink, and turned on the television. Then he tried to make himself comfortable in a chair. There was nothing worth watching, so he ignored the television and tried to concentrate on his dilemma.

  Instead of finding a solution, he just smoked incessantly and made each subsequent drink stronger than the one before. When the ice cubes began to rattle in the bottom of his glass at the end of the fifth drink, he went out for a walk. There, in front of the shopping arcade, by sheer dumb luck, he had crossed paths with Redding.

  His injuries could have been a lot worse. As it was, the beating was mostly just humiliating. There wouldn’t be any permanent scarring, and already his knee was feeling better.

  * * *

  His fight with Redding had taken more out of him than he had thought possible. There was no point in trying to fight the exhaustion. He downed the last of his drink and moved from the chair to the bed. Even before the alcohol had fully taken hold, he had fallen asleep.

  He awoke a couple of hours later still sore from the beating. The swelling around his nose was more pronounced, almost as if it were a beacon meant to remind him of that morning’s lopsided thrashing. He took his empty glass of scotch and threw it across the room. It shattered on impact with the wall. As much as he hated the idea, he had to consider transferring four hundred thousand dollars on blind faith. Without the painting and its financial windfall, his gallery would soon be insolvent. He had access to four hundred thousand through Mr. Azzian, but if he failed to repay that debt, he would be facing some very serious consequences.

  * * *

  He had borrowed money from Mr. Azzian on two previous occasions. The guy was a loan shark who masqueraded as an investment broker. From behind his huge desk in a high-rise office building he shelled out money. He dabbled in venture capital, but mostly he just made personal loans. The loans were always short term and they carried an excessively high rate of interest. He was an affable enough guy as long as his clients complied with the terms of the agreement. Otherwise, he promptly collected on outstanding debts by sadistic means.

  The first loan Joran had taken was easily repaid, but the second loan was a different matter. That loan had been used to acquire an obscure painting of questionable ownership at a fairly deep discount. He had planned to offload the painting to an eccentric collector, but the collector balked at the price and tipped off the
police. Joran was arrested at his gallery while still in possession of the painting. Luckily, the district attorney wasn’t able to prove that he had any prior knowledge that the artwork had been stolen and charges were never filed. Nevertheless, the scandal that resulted had a devastating effect on his gallery. Nearly half of all the consigned artwork was withdrawn. Faced with limited options, he secured a second mortgage on his upper Eastside co-op to avoid defaulting on his debt to Mr. Azzian.

  * * *

  Arranging to have the four hundred thousand wired wasn’t inherently difficult. One phone call to Mr. Azzian would all but complete the arrangement, but first, the matter had to be given careful consideration. If anything went wrong, he would have no means to repay his debt. Failure to repay Mr. Azzian always meant consequences, usually so disturbing Joran hated to even think about it. The act of borrowing money was no minor issue, and he was pissed at having been placed in that situation.

  Joran was mentally nowhere close to handing over four hundred thousand dollars in exchange for the painting. He still wanted to find some other option that would place the artwork back in his hands, short of paying for it. He had already spent hours racking his brain, but hadn’t come up with a single idea. Yet deep inside there was a part of him that would have gladly transferred the money if it meant leaving China with the painting.

  If he knew where the painting was being held, he might be able to retrieve it. It was possible, but unlikely, that Redding had stashed the painting in his hotel room. That would have been a rather dicey move considering how easy it was to get into a locked room. Redding would have had to sit on the painting day and night, but that wasn’t the case. He had been out walking the streets, sipping coffee. It also seemed unlikely that he would have trusted the hotel for safe keeping. More likely, he had stashed it somewhere else.

  Joran tried to clear his mind, but he was in such a piss-poor mood that it clouded his ability to think. Then, housekeeping knocked on his door for the second time. They needed to clean the room, so he pulled on some jeans and a shirt, grabbed a fresh pack of cigarettes, and headed out.

  * * *

  He tried to cross Xi Huan Road in the middle of the block but traffic was unyielding. One taxi after another pulled over to the curb vying for his business, but he just waved them away. His attempts to cross the boulevard had been futile, so he lit a cigarette and continued along the same side of the street. Aside from its intended use, the unusually wide sidewalk was also utilized as a parking venue for motorcycles and scooters. They would bounce over the low curb, weave through the pedestrians, and park in front of one of the businesses.

  About a half a mile down Xi Huan Road a cluster of tables had been set up on the sidewalk, each sporting an umbrella and plastic chairs, thus creating the façade of a café. The outside portion may have mimicked a café, but the inside was nothing more than a small mini mart. Joran sat down in one of the plastic chairs and waited. A moment later a young girl came out and stood alongside his table. She had a cell phone held to her ear and was fully engrossed in a conversation.

  “Can I get a beer?” Joran said with thick, condescending overtones.

  “You want what?” She threw a cursory glanced in his direction, clearly irritated by the interruption.

  “A beer! You know beer?”

  Without responding, she spun around and headed back into the mini mart, only to return a moment later with a Chinese-labeled beer. Without deviating from her cell phone conversation, she set the beer down in front of Joran, collected his money, and then disappeared back inside.

  As he sipped from the bottle, he watched the seemingly never-ending traffic of the boulevard. He had only been there a couple of minutes when two motorcycles came over the curb and parked. As soon as the first biker removed his helmet, Joran recognized him. It was the biker that had ridiculed him about his bloodied condition earlier that day. The biker left his helmet precariously balanced on the seat of his motorcycle and walked right past Joran into the mini mart. The second biker had dismounted and was hanging his helmet on the handlebars of his motorcycle when he caught sight of Joran. Without breaking eye contact, he walked up to Joran’s table.

  “Cigarette for me?” Long asked.

  Joran hesitated before pulling the pack of cigarettes from his shirt pocket and shaking one loose for Long. Long lit the cigarette and took a slow drag on it without ever taking his eyes off of Joran. Then, as if an unstated invitation existed, he suddenly slumped into one of the empty chairs at Joran’s table. A few moments later, Qiang emerged from the mini mart, tearing the wrapper off a pack of cigarettes. Long said something to him in Chinese while gesturing to indicate that Joran had been hit in the nose. Qiang stopped fumbling with the cigarettes long enough to give Joran a hard look.

  “Your nose is better now?” Qiang asked.

  Joran only nodded.

  “His name is Long, mine is Qiang,” he said. Then, he sat down at the table and lit a cigarette.

  Joran reluctantly reached across the table, shook their hands, and introduced himself.

  “So, why you fight?” Qiang asked.

  Joran wasn’t prepared to answer any questions related to that morning’s ill-conceived row, so he just shrugged his shoulders.

  “Maybe next time you fight, you call us first. We can help you.”

  Joran’s initial reaction was to dismiss the suggestion as just an amusing thought. Qiang didn’t exactly seem like the fighting type, but Long had a more aggressive demeanor. Setting aside his solid build and well-defined muscles, there was still a hardened grit about him.

  “How can you help?” Joran asked.

  Qiang and Long spoke to each other in Chinese, and then Qiang yelled something to the young woman inside the mini mart. She came out with two beers, handing one to Qiang and the other to Long. Then she tapped Joran on the shoulder.

  “You pay now.”

  Joran stared at her. He couldn’t believe that she expected him to pay, but rather than balk, he reached into his pocket and pulled out some Chinese yuan. Qiang and Long both nodded their appreciation before nearly finishing the beers in a succession of quick gulps.

  “There are five of us,” Qiang stated. “We are fast. We get the job done, and then we are gone. That easy!”

  “Well, let me think about it.” Joran said, not that he ever really would.

  Long held the bottle upside down to his lips for the last remaining drops, then Qiang and Long stood up. They mounted their motorcycles and were in the process of putting on their helmets when Joran called to them.

  “How much?” His question was based more on curiosity than anything else.

  Both Qiang and Long got off their bikes, came back to the table, and sat down. Qiang once again yelled at the girl inside as he lit another cigarette. She came out with two more beers, handing one to Qiang and the other to Long, and then she tapped Joran on the shoulder, again.

  “You pay now,” she said as she held her hand out for the money.

  Joran shook his head in disbelief as he reached into his pocket. As soon as the girl left, he repeated his original question.

  “Ten thousand yuan!” Qiang said.

  “Ten thousand yuan? Are you joking?”

  “No, not joking!”

  Joran peered out onto the passing traffic, momentarily sequestered in his own thoughts.

  “You want us to hurt someone?” Qiang asked.

  “He’s gotta feel real pain!” Joran blurted out. Until that moment, he hadn’t even realized how much he had been aching to even things up with Redding. It seemed strange that the idea of outright revenge hadn’t previously been drawn into conscious, concrete thought. “If you can really hurt him, I might be interested.”

  “There are five of us. We each get two thousand yuan.”

  The more Joran thought about it, the stronger the appeal became, but he had reservations about handing ten thousand yuan over to a couple of locals. The amount was close to fifteen hundred dollars.

 
Qiang and Long spoke Chinese to each other in a series of exchanges, purposely excluding Joran, but he was already well aware of what was being discussed. Before they could even asked the question, he offered up a misleading answer.

  “He has something that belongs to me.” Joran said. “A cello.”

  He motioned with his hands as if he were playing an invisible version of the instrument. It would have been reckless to disclose the actual existence of the painting, so he deliberately misled them.

  Long had been watching Joran’s deliberate motions intently, and then suddenly spoke to Qiang in Chinese as if he had figured it out.

  “Oh, I know, to make music,” Qiang said, nodding his head.

  “That’s it!”

  “Sure, no problem! Ten thousand yuan! And we find your cello.”

  Qiang’s words were manna from heaven and Joran wasn’t about to let the opportunity slip away. He was just about to agree to their terms when he had an idea on how he could get the job done for half price. He proposed an alternative.

  “You get five thousand yuan up front and I’ll pay you ten thousand more when you bring me the cello. If I don’t get the cello, you don’t get the ten thousand yuan.”

  The cello itself was nonexistent, and it seemed unlikely that Redding would give up the painting even though he was sure to suffer one hell of a beating. That wouldn’t exactly balance the scales from Joran’s point of view. Still, the idea of Redding getting beaten senseless provided him with a measure of satisfaction, especially if it only cost him five thousand yuan.

  While Qiang and Long discussed the arrangement in Chinese, Joran sat back and lit another cigarette. He had seen the face of hunger before, and these guys were hungry for money. All he had to do was wait until they accepted his terms.

  “So where can we find this guy?” Qiang asked.

  Joran set a time and place for them to meet, insisting that he identify Redding himself. He wanted to eliminate any possibility of a mistaken identity. Only then would he hand over the advance fee of five thousand yuan.