by Greg Arritt
Qiang suggested a final meeting at that same sidewalk café after the job was finished. There they would exchange the cello for the additional ten thousand yuan.
Just the idea that the bikers would deliver a cello was fairly comical, but Joran managed to hold a straight face. He agreed to the final meeting, but he had no intention of showing up, nor would the bikers be collecting the remainder of their fee.
Chapter Twenty-Five
It had rained during the night, but by morning the precipitation had passed, leaving only scattered clouds and cool temperatures. With last night’s cello dreams still in his head, a morning jog was exactly the kind of workout Redding needed to ease the tension. He threaded his way through the taxis parked on the hotel apron and then broke into a run.
The streets were congested with morning commuters in business attire and uniforms, all headed somewhere. Buses were filled to capacity, sidewalks bristled with foot traffic, and a slew of taxis wasted little time ferrying passengers. It all would have been typical of a Monday morning except for an American jogging along the boulevard. Redding turned away from the boulevard and headed out of downtown Suzhou in the hope of leaving the heavy vehicle emissions behind.
He worked his way into the narrow streets of a residential neighborhood, away from the hazards of the morning’s traffic. Although the street was devoid of vehicles, he had to constantly dodge errant bicycles parked on the sidewalk and students making their way to school. He quickened his pace as he turned onto a tree-lined street that was virtually empty with the exception of a few motorcycles.
The morning’s traffic had thinned and he had finally connected with his stride. His pace wasn’t too fast, but his breathing was slightly labored and already beads of sweat had begun to form. His mind drifted from one thought to another as he sucked in volumes of the cool morning air. He thought about Lin Ming, the first time he kissed her and the night they spent together. He felt bad about the way things had turned out. He wished the cultural divide hadn’t gotten in the way, but it wouldn’t have made any difference. She was right. He would leave and she would be left behind. That’s the way it was and thinking about it was just a mental exercise in futility. He switched his thoughts and reviewed his plans for the day. After breakfast on the mezzanine and a quick taxi ride to the school, he would honor his commitment and teach English for the day.
At the far end of the street a delivery truck spewing noxious exhaust had just stopped. There were motorcycles trying to squeeze by on both sides of the truck, so Redding turned onto an alley that would lead him back in the direction of the downtown area. A masonry wall ran along one side of the alley and the back of commercial buildings along the other side.
He had been holding to the center of the alley until he heard some motorcycles approaching from behind. He moved over to one side, allowing them sufficient room to pass. As the first motorcycle passed the rider swung a heavy cane, which struck Redding from behind, slightly above his left knee. He stumbled forward, instinctively compensating to stave off a fall. He had nearly regained his balance when the second motorcycle passed. That rider took a hard swing with a bamboo cane, striking Redding across his back before glancing upward and hitting him in the back of the head.
Redding saw the next motorcycle approaching from straight ahead, but there wasn’t any place he could take cover. The blow drove him backward as the cane struck him across his chest just below his neck. The impact spun him around and he landed face down in the alley. Slightly dazed, he picked himself up and assumed a defensive posture. He caught sight of someone wearing a motorcycle helmet, halfway through a full-motion swing aimed at him. He made an attempt to deflect the blow with his arms, but he was too late. He caught the blow directly across his midsection and collapsed, again.
Still lying in the alley, Redding felt kicks and blows coming from every direction. He pulled his arms upward in an attempt to protect his head. From deep inside he found a surge of adrenalin that compelled him to sit up as he tried to block the incoming blows. He took a wild swing with his right arm and it connected, but he wasn’t sure where the punch had landed. Then someone delivered a kick to his chest that knocked him down again. As he lay on the ground, he drew one of his knees upward and kicked wildly. He felt the resistance of the kick as it squarely planted into someone. That was just before he was struck on the side of his head, causing an immense ringing in his ear. The blows to his head and body continued, but he just lay there motionless, struggling to breathe.
* * *
Redding sensed an eerie darkness, which began to lighten into a dull shade of gray. A collage of fleeting images skirted through his vision, but he couldn’t seem to focus on any of them. Whatever it was, the blurred images were indistinguishable. Several seconds passed before his vision began to clear. He was looking directly at a young Chinese man, maybe in his early twenties, wielding a bamboo cane. In one quick motion the cane was swung like a baseball bat an inch over his head. He heard the swoosh as the cane passed and felt its turbulence roil through his hair, but it didn’t elicit so much as a flinch. Still somewhat confused by what had happened, he struggled to remember.
“Do you hear me?” Qiang asked, warming up for his next swing.
Redding remembered. He had just been waylaid by some local bikers. He glanced around and they were all still there. Wherever this was, it wasn’t over yet. He was sitting upright in the middle of the alley now, still trying to piece together his fragmented memory of what had happened.
“Do you hear me?” Qiang demanded impatiently.
Redding had taken a beating and it certainly wasn’t the first time. He had previously had lots of practice. As a boy in Indiana, he had received more than his share of beatings. Every other month his father came home with a half-finished bottle in his hands. He would stumble into the house cussing and yelling. With or without cause, the blame for something would land on Redding and he would suffer a beating.
“I’m talking to you,” Qiang said as he poked Redding in the chest with the cane.
In Indiana, he had been in his share of fights; some he won, and a few he lost. During his school years he had been suspended more than once for fighting. It wasn’t that he liked fighting – actually, he didn’t – but it was preferable to taking a beating. As he matured, his aggressiveness subsided, replaced by a much-preferred diplomatic approach to menacing situations.
“Yeah, I hear you,” Redding said as he glanced around again, sizing up the situation.
* * *
Long was standing next to his motorcycle, still holding his three-foot bamboo cane in his hand as he shifted his lower jaw from side to side, testing the functionality and feeling for the pain. He had caught a solid right hook to the jaw. Standing near Long was Fangxu.
Fangxu had lit a cigarette, but he wasn’t really smoking it. He leaned against the wall with the cigarette in one hand while his other hand was deep inside the front of his pants, cradling his aching testicles. When he had stepped in front of Redding, he’d received a severe kick to the groin.
Jie was across the alley from Long and Fangxu, sitting on his motorcycle. With a cigarette hanging out of his mouth, he divided his attention between Redding and the artful manipulations of the switchblade in his hand.
Weichao was standing a short distance behind Redding. He was the only one still wearing his helmet. He continuously watched both ends of the alley. If the police should arrive, they would all have to make a hasty retreat.
Qiang stood directly in front of Redding demanding answers to his questions while taking practice swings with the bamboo cane.
“You have taken something that doesn’t belong to you and your friend will have it back,” Qiang said with authority.
Redding couldn’t quite grasp what Qiang was talking about. He wondered if the attack had been set up by Jian.
“You fight with him, now you have to fight with us.”
It wasn’t Jian he was talking about. It was Joran. That lousy scum of an art dealer couldn’t han
dle himself in a fight, so he had brought these guys in to do his dirty work.
“Are you listening to me?” Qiang demanded.
“Yeah, I hear you.”
“Give us a cello and we won’t hurt you anymore.”
“A cello?”
“A cello, to make music. You know!”
“It’s not a cello he’s looking for. It’s a painting,” Redding said incautiously while trying to maintain his upright balance. Blood was dripping from his hair and running from his nose. He reached up, felt the top of his head, and found the source of the bleeding.
“Don’t screw with us because we will definitely hurt you. Now, where is this cello?” Qiang demanded, emphasizing his impatience.
Weichao moved up directly behind Redding and delivered a kick to the lower left side of Redding’s back. Redding fell over on his side and roiled in a pain that emanated from his kidney. He let out a groan as he attempted to sit up. He was quite sure that when he pissed, it would be bloody.
Qiang motioned Weichao to move away.
“Now give us the cello and we won’t have to hurt you anymore,” Qiang insisted.
“It’s real simple. It’s not a cello. It’s a painting, and the name of the painting is, “A Man with a Cello.” That’s what he wants!” Redding said, fully expecting another barrage of blows.
“Then, it’s a painting of a cello, good. Give us the painting,” Qiang demanded, again motioning the heavyset biker who had inched forward to move away.
“That asshole already has the painting,” Redding said, sensing that Qiang had neared his limits.
“What asshole?”
“The art dealer! The guy who hired you to come after me.”
“He’s not an art dealer, he’s a musician,” Qiang said.
“Look him up on the Internet. He’s listed as an art dealer at the Aztec Gallery in New York City. He sells expensive paintings, not cellos. Hell, he probably doesn’t even have the faintest idea how to play one,” Redding said under the guise of a weak laugh.
He had been trying to buy some time to collect his thoughts. He needed to find a way out of the alley without sustaining any further injuries. The bikers had taken to arguing in Chinese amongst themselves. The level of frustration between them was rising, as if there was a sense of urgency. Most likely, they were worried that the authorities might arrive.
“It’s really very simple,” Redding interrupted. “That asshole art dealer already has the painting and his plan is to walk right past customs with the painting in his garment bag. He’s going to smuggle that painting right out of China.”
“Then why did he hire us?” Qiang asked.
“Well, I beat him pretty good, so he probably wanted to get even. That goes without saying, but what he really needs is me out of the way. I’m the only reason he hasn’t left China yet, and I’m also the only one that can expose him to customs. That’s a risk he’s not willing to take,” Redding said as he continued to assess his injuries.
Qiang was translating to the others almost simultaneously while Redding spoke.
“If I’m in a hospital, he can pass right through customs.”
“So, he already has this cello painting?” Qiang asked as if he needed clarification.
“Yeah! He’s got the painting, and you guys get nothing,” Redding said, knowing just how to spin his lie. He had learned long ago that a lie is apt to be believed if it is blended with a measure of truth.
He had to find a way out of the alley without getting killed in the process. Then, over the next two days, he would have to make sure he didn’t run into these guys again. If the wire transfer didn’t come in, then he would make a call to Le Musee Angladon and that would be the end of it.
“What do you mean we get nothing?” Qiang asked.
“You were used! You did his dirty work and he walks away.”
“He’s going to pay us,” Qiang said. His voice betrayed a level of confidence that had faded into doubt.
“No, he’s not!” Redding fired back as he gingerly pressed against his aching ribs. “You’re never going to see him again.”
Qiang translated as Redding spoke, which caused an almost immediate outburst of heated exchanges. Redding wasn’t able to understand a word they said, but from the tone of their voices, he knew they were getting angrier.
When they had finally arrived at a consensus the group fell silent, but the unsettling edginess about them had not diminished. Jie, still wielding the switchblade, had come up behind Redding. With his knee pressed into Redding’s back, he grabbed him just under the chin and pulled his head backward. Redding decided not to resist. He had caught a glimpse of the shining steel just before the sharp edge of the switchblade was pressed against his neck.
“If you have lied to us, we will kill you,” Qiang said flatly.
Redding didn’t utter a sound or move a single muscle. The blade was held tightly against his throat and then suddenly Jie released his hold. He moved into a position directly in front of Redding. He whipped the switchblade around his hand before folding the blade back into its handle. Still holding the closed knife in his right hand, he smiled at Redding. His smile evoked a calming effect that seemed to say there was nothing to fear. Redding felt a wave of relief wash over him. He returned the smile, but Jie had already turned away. In one quick move Jie swung around and hit Redding hard, square on the left side on his face. He fell backward and rolled onto his side.
* * *
Redding lifted his head slowly so as not to lose consciousness. He waited until his vision cleared, then forced himself into a seated upright position. A momentary wave of imbalance caused him to extend an arm to steady himself. He wasn’t sure if he had just been knocked out or if he was just dazed by the blow. He thought he had heard the sound of motorcycles revving, but he wasn’t sure. A quick scan of the alley in both directions confirmed that the bikers were gone.
With his elbows on his knees and his hands supporting his head, Redding just sat still. He tried to focus his thoughts, but was continually interrupted by an immense throbbing in his head. It seemed likely that some internal organs would have been bruised, but hopefully there weren’t any serious injuries. At least no bones had been broken and he still had all of his teeth. The cuts, scrapes, and bloody nose were all minor issues. A real concern was the fact that his clothes had become soaked in the filthy alley water and the abrasions under his clothing were now open to infection. Still, that wasn’t his most pressing concern. He desperately needed to urinate. The beating had been a bad one, but his condition wasn’t critical.
He slowly stood up and looked around the alley. He wasn’t too far from a main street, but was still several blocks from his hotel. At the moment, he was alone. He untied his nylon sweatpants, extended one arm to brace his body against a building, and then he relieved himself. He wasn’t surprised by the stream of urine and blood or by the fact that one of his kidneys was silently screaming in pain.
Although his limp was fairly pronounced and his knee hurt like hell, he managed to make his way out of the alley. He headed in the direction of the hotel, but his progress was painfully slow. Everyone seemed to be staring and yet no one offered to help him. He disliked being the object of attention, whether from pity or some perverse curiosity. He wasn’t easily humiliated or overly self-conscious, yet the stares were unsettling. He signaled taxi after taxi, but all refused the fare when they caught sight of his filthy condition.
At the hotel entrance, the doorman asked him if he should call a doctor, but Redding dismissed the idea with a slight raise of his hand as he limped away to the elevators. Aside from the pounding headache, it seemed as if every muscle and joint in his body were unified in pain.
Thoroughly exhausted, he entered his room and placed the “Do not disturb” sign on the door. He filled a glass with water and downed two aspirins. Then he dampened a washcloth with cold water and held it across his swollen eye. Ice would have been preferable, but he wasn’t about to walk down the
hallway. He stripped off his clothes and collapsed on the bed. More than an hour passed before the intensity of his headache subsided and he drifted off to sleep.
Chapter Twenty-Six
An incessantly harsh ring woke Redding from the throes of a deadening sleep. A glance at his watch told him that he had slept for nearly three hours, but the sleep had done little to alleviate his exhaustion. As he reached for the phone, individual pains throughout his body announced their locations. That morning’s beating came flooding back into his memory in an array of non-sequential vignettes. One specific blow that flashed into consciousness caused him to flinch and utter a barely audible groan into the receiver.
“Redding, where the hell are you?”
“Who is this?”
“It’s Sam, remember me? You were supposed to be here today. My schedule is so goddamn screwed up!”
Redding suddenly sat up in bed as the realization set in. He had completely forgotten that he was supposed to teach English. He released a series of expletives aimed at his own shortsightedness. He should have called Sam. His thoughtlessness was inexcusable, but based on the way the morning unfolded it wouldn’t have made any difference. Instead of a credible excuse for his absence, he offered only an oversold apology.
Apology or not, Sam was seething. It wasn’t like Redding to take his commitments lightly and he hated people that did, but there wasn’t anything he could have done to change the outcome. He promised that he would meet Sam later and explain everything. After Sam calmed down, Redding hung up.
His headache had subsided so he stood up and tested his balance. Satisfied with his stability, he rolled his clothes in such a way that the bloodstains were hidden from view and stuffed them into the waste bin. Then he headed into the bathroom and took a hard look at himself in the mirror. The swelling below his eye wasn’t so bad, but the surrounding tissue already showed signs of discoloration. It would be his first black eye in many years.
The bruising on his body was far more extensive than he had anticipated. The bamboo canes had left the unmistakable signature of raised welts of various sizes and degrees. There was one particularly nasty welt across his abdomen, but he didn’t remember receiving that blow. Nor could he account for the injury to his hip or the deep throbbing pain in his left shoulder.