by Rob Hart
It didn’t matter. Either way, Harold was pretty sure he’d been a sacrificial lamb. That Wen was stuck doing deliveries for Mr. Mo and realized the only way out was to push some gweilo into the job. He almost didn’t blame Wen. Harold briefly wondered if he could pull off the same. Find some desperate gambler looking for a fix, willing to run up a stupid debt.
Then he just got angry.
That anger festered in his gut, making him feel sick. He thought they were friends. And after years of reneging on loans and breaking promises, Wen seemed to be the only friend he had left.
A long time ago, so long he couldn’t even remember when, Harold decided the life of wearing a suit and tie and sitting in a gray box to make some rich person richer was not the life he wanted for himself.
Gambling was a natural fit. He was good with numbers. Gutsy enough to make bold moves but cautious enough to sit on a mediocre hand. For a while, he made some nice money. And it was fun. But as the bills stacked up, he got desperate.
Made bolder moves. Sat on hands less.
When Marguerite left and the alimony payments piled up, it got worse.
Maybe he could exploit some weakness in Mr. Mo’s operation. Maybe he and Wen could come up with a plan that would score them some quick cash, and Harold could get on a plane. Mr. Mo seemed to have juice, but probably not out in Iowa. Even if he couldn’t get back in his with family, at least he’d be well away from here.
But how long would it last?
What if they came out of the job with a couple of grand each? It would float him for a little bit, but he’d end up in the same spot. The spot that got him into this situation in the first place.
So he chose not to end up there.
And as he explained Wen’s idea to Mr. Mo, he felt something approaching serenity. That he was finally making a decision to better himself. Because it was the smart decision. Smarter than a heist. Smarter than maybe getting himself shot or beaten to death by vengeful Triads.
He got himself into this mess. He would ride it out, finish it, and move on.
No more gambling.
He was making his own luck.
Mr. Mo listened silently, that cigarette dangling from his lip. Harold thought at the end maybe he should barter for early release, but thought it best to just let the truth percolate. Mr. Mo was harsh, but didn’t seem unreasonable.
After finishing the story, Harold thought he saw a hint of a smile on Mr. Mo’s face. Like something flitting on the edge of his vision, but when he looked, found there was nothing there.
Mr. Mo raised his hand and waved him off. Harold went downstairs and smiled at Bai and sat at his chair. It wasn’t long before Mr. Mo placed a bag down in front of Harold.
“Last delivery,” he said. “Braised frog. After, you go home.”
That was a new one. He hadn’t delivered braised frog before. Harold picked up the bag and Mr. Mo grabbed his wrist.
“After, you go home,” he said, drawing out the words. “You don’t come back. Ever.”
Harold nodded. He thought about thanking Mr. Mo, but decided against it. It felt perverse to thank him. The only thing he was thankful for was the fact that he’d never see this man again.
The address was for a street Harold didn’t recognize. He stepped out of the restaurant and typed it into his phone. It came up in Coney Island. That meant more than an hour round-trip. But Harold didn’t mind. It would be worth it, just to be done.
He walked to the N stop at Canal, sat on the train with the bag nestled in his lap, thinking about what he would do with the rest of his day. No beers with Wen, that was for sure. Another person he hoped to never see again.
As the train made its way down the above-ground tracks of Brooklyn, Harold pulled out his cell phone and tapped Marguerite’s name on his contact list. Maybe he’d catch her in a good mood and she’d put him on the phone with Cindy.
A gruff voice answered. “Hello?”
“Hi, I’m looking for Marguerite?”
“She changed her number,” the voice said. “Number got reassigned.”
“I’m sorry. Listen, did she leave a forwarding number?”
The man clicked off.
Harold closed the phone and looked at it. Put it back in his pocket. Felt the ache in his chest grow bigger. Marguerite probably forgot to tell him. Maybe she e-mailed it to him. He hadn’t checked his e-mail in days.
He brushed it off. It was nothing. A mistake. He’d get word to her somehow. Chances are she wouldn’t believe him because he’d given her this song and dance before. But this time, he would follow it up with action.
That, he promised himself.
When the doors opened at Stillwell, he could smell the salt heavy in the air that came off the ocean. He followed the exit signs down to the sidewalk and checked his phone, found the address was a couple of blocks away.
On the walk back, he would hit Nathan’s. Get a hot dog. Maybe some cheese fries if he could afford it. He was all the way down here, maybe not ever coming back to New York. One last hot dog at Nathan’s seemed like a proper sendoff.
He walked the long stretches of suburban sidewalks to the little pulsing blue dot on his phone, finally finding it, but the number on the front didn’t match the number on the ticket. He looked at it again, and realized there was a second mailbox with the correct number. Must be a side apartment.
Harold walked down the empty driveway to the door with an awning and a single step. He stood in the shadow cast by the house next door, and rang the bell before placing the bag on the step, opening it up and pulling out the Chinese take-out container inside. His heart racing, head spinning, so pleased to almost be done.
The take-out container felt heavier than normal. He pried open the cardboard flaps as the door opened. Harold looked up from the container to see Wen in a tank top and boxers, bleary-eyed and hair unkempt, peering out from inside of the darkened apartment.
They stared at each other in confusion.
Then Wen saw the container and his lips parted a little.
Harold looked down into the white folds and found a small, compact handgun.
“Please tell me that’s just a pear,” Wen said as Harold contemplated the ache in his chest.
Ophelia slammed into the exposed brick wall. She tucked her chin to her chest and slapped her hands against the wall as she made contact to disperse the impact.
Breakfall. P1 stuff. Easy.
What wasn’t easy: five men and two women weaving their way through the grid of tables and chairs in the dim restaurant, advancing on her from all sides.
The furthest she’d gotten in her training was P2. She hadn’t tested for multiple attackers yet. That was top level, probably. P5. Maybe even G-level.
She wasn’t prepared for this. Not even a bit.
“I’m going to make you pay for that, you half-breed bitch,” Roger said, wiping his mouth and checking his hand. He had blood on his teeth. Good. Ophelia knew the first blow had landed square. She could still feel it on her knuckles.
However it went down, she’d get in a few more before this was over.
Roger pushed a chair aside, creating space in the middle of the hardwood floor. Savoring the moment. Moving with purpose, like a dance. The others stopped, giving him room to perform.
He stepped into the little clearing he created and held up her phone. Made sure she got a good look, then dropped it to the floor. It landed with a sharp crack. The kind where you don’t even need to pick it up to know the screen fractured. He brought his knee up high and drove his foot down, the heel of his boot landing hard on the glass and plastic enclosure.
He maintained eye contact with her, the phone making a crunching-gravel sound.
“We’re going to make an example of you,” Roger said, pushing a large table across the floor, the legs screeching and squealing, the flame of the candle atop jerking. “And there’ll be some hemming and hawing in the liberal media.” He put his fists to his eyes and twisted them. Mock crying. “Wah
-wah, another beautiful flower in our rich tapestry of a country plucked from the earth.” He laughed. “But the people who matter, the people who are ready to take this country back, they’ll see it for what it is: a call to arms.”
“You talk too much, asshole,” Ophelia said. “You want to fight, let’s fight.”
Roger froze. Spine rigid like a bolt of electricity shot through it. The words landed harder than her fist.
He was not the kind of man who could handle a woman talking back to him.
He was the kind of man who thought the world owed him an unearned debt.
The kind of man who wasn’t really a man, who picked fights if he had a posse behind him.
Roger looked at her over his shoulder. Like she wasn’t worth turning completely around for. The twist of his face so sharp she couldn’t believe how it held such a warm smile only moments ago.
“Everyone,” he said, raising his voice. “Let’s party.”
The group moved again, closing in on her. Ophelia breathed in through her mouth. Felt air expand in her chest. Breathed out slow through her nose.
Then she moved her feet into fighting stance.
As they got closer, she started building a plan. Who to attack first. Which fist to throw. But then she stopped. Remembered the words of her instructors. One of the downsides of fight training was it could lock you into routines. You freeze until the angles or distances get right, which they might never be, because real-life fighting was a dirty, crazy, unpredictable thing.
Her Krav Maga tutelage took this into account, with variations and stress drills, but the best thing she could do was trust her training, keep her hands up, not let anyone circle behind her, and, most of all, improvise.
So when the woman with red hair in a tight ponytail launched an attack, Ophelia was surprised at the force with which she drove a vertical elbow into the woman’s eye socket. The impact shot through Ophelia’s arm so hard she felt numbness in her fingertips. The woman’s head snapped back and she nearly left her feet on the way to the floor.
It made Ophelia think she had a chance.
But as the screaming-nerve feel of the blow faded, she realized there were still six people left to go.
THE ROOM FILLED with the sound of slaps and grunts, the gray mats slick with sweat. Ophelia stood still and closed her eyes. A hand snaked across her neck, a forearm coming to rest against her carotid artery. Blood choke. Put enough pressure on the carotid for long enough, you could make a person pass out.
But the arm wrapped around her neck was barely touching her, like she was a thing easily broken.
“C’mon, I’m not made of glass,” she said, throwing her elbow back, catching Ethan in the gut. “Do it like you mean it.”
The arm tightened. Carefully at first, but growing tighter, until Ophelia could feel her pulse beating in her head like a drum. She breathed in through her mouth. Felt air expand in her chest. Breathed out slowly through her nose.
Then she threw her hands back, at Ethan’s face, to claw at his eyes. She felt his ear because he had turned his head to the side. Safety in training.
After a few strategic swipes, she grabbed his arm, her elbow sticking out in front of her, creating a lever. She slammed her free hand down on the elbow. Once, twice. The third time, she dislodged Ethan’s grip. Then she twisted around, sliding under his arm until she was behind him, and launched her foot between her legs, her bare toes tapping the hard plastic of his cup.
As she finished the technique, glowing at how smoothly it had gone, she felt a little jab in her lower back. Turned and found the instructor, Jason, holding a black plastic training knife against her.
“Good work, Ophelia. But remember, when you’re done, search and scan. Get out. Don’t drop your guard.”
“Got it, thanks,” she said, blushing a little, at both the compliment and the embarrassment of losing track of her surroundings.
Jason nodded and bounded across the mat, looking for another pair to help. Ethan turned, readjusted his black fuzzy headband, which had gotten jostled. He rolled his neck, thick muscles bulging.
“You okay?” she asked.
“Yeah,” he said. “Sorry about that. I just, you know, didn’t want to hurt you.”
“It’s fine,” Ophelia said. “The reason I’m taking this class is so I can defend myself against someone your size. I’m not going to learn anything if you take it easy on me.”
“That’s fair,” he said. “I know we’re supposed to ping-pong, but I feel pretty good about rear chokes. Want me to just keep working on you?”
Ophelia smiled. “Then however are you going to learn to defend yourself against a woman my size?”
Ethan laughed. “Fine. See if you can even reach.”
He turned and closed his eyes. Ethan was nearly two heads taller than her—too tall, she liked to tell him—so she hopped up and reached her arm around his throat, not getting all the way around, but far enough to put him in an armbar choke, and pulled back hard, bringing them both crashing to the mats.
A few people stopped to watch, wondering whether it had been an accident, if anyone had been hurt, but the two of them were laughing hard enough that, within moments, the class was back at it. Pairs of students placing each other in chokes, slipping out of them, sliding across the mats.
“One line!”
The action stopped, pairs breaking up, everyone moving to the edge of the mat, lining up alongside the wall. Jason took his place at the front of the room.
Jason was Ophelia’s favorite instructor. He was slight, almost her size, but his roundhouse kick was like a wrecking ball. More than that, he carried with him an air of quiet confidence. He could dismantle anybody in the room—too-tall Ethan included—but you’d never know it.
Every Wednesday night, she felt like the worst student in class and told herself she’d never return. Every Wednesday morning, she packed her gym bag because Jason made her believe in herself.
“Good work today, everyone,” he said. “Any injuries I need to know about?”
No one said anything.
“Lots of good work today.” He glanced at Ophelia and flashed a little grin. “Just remember, always end your technique by searching and scanning. That’s the kind of thing you get failed for during testing.” He returned his attention to the rest of class. “Stretch out when you get home. As you cool down, your muscles can tighten up. Now, everyone like me…”
Jason put his feet together, brought his fists out and level with his waist, and bowed.
“Kida.”
The row of students did the same. Feet together, fists up. Repeating “kida,” the Hebrew word for “bow.”
Jason clapped. “Good work, everyone.”
The line disintegrated, people slapping hands, clapping each other on the back. A moment of shared victory after a night of hard work.
Ophelia loved this moment. Wednesday night existed in a universe separate from the rest of her life. No one shared this with her—not her family or friends or co-workers. Just these people, most of whom she didn’t know by any other name than the techniques they’d worked on together: Stick Defense Guy. Push Kick Girl.
She knew Ethan because she liked to work with him. Even though Jason encouraged people to pair up with people who were roughly the same size, she wanted the challenge, and Ethan, who’d already made it to G-level, was happy to oblige.
That basement, with its white painted walls, the guts of the ceiling exposed through missing tiles, was an oasis. And tonight, of all nights, she really needed that rush of adrenaline.
OPHELIA STEPPED INTO the bracing cold, so dry it stung her sinus cavity. She reached into her jacket for her gloves.
“You’re really going through with this?”
Ethan was standing against the exterior wall of the gym, freshly-showered, bundled in a heavy black coat and bright red wool cap.
“How do you know I’m going through with it?” she asked.
“You’re wearing makeup.”
<
br /> Ophelia laughed at herself. She’d thrown on a little eyeliner and foundation as a matter of habit; she didn’t need to look good for Roger Spector.
She knew it was him, soon as she saw his headshot. Even shrunken down the way it was. He’d been doing television interviews non-stop. Been profiled in two newspapers and three magazines. Ever since some pasty goons with tiki torches tried to protest the removal of some racist statues.
There was Spector, at the center of it all, smiling that jagged smile. His hair buzzed tight on the sides, but long and pushed back on top, in that Hitler Youth style that’d gotten so popular lately with pale white men. Especially the kind of pale white men who liked to shout phrases like “blood and soil” and “you won’t replace us.”
And here he was, a proud emissary of hatred, on a dating app.
Looking for love.
She thought about swiping left. She nearly did, her finger hovering over the screen, muscle twitching.
She swiped right. Just to see what would happen.
It was not difficult to discern she was a woman of color. Her exact origins may have been a little hard to peg—her father was Ethiopian, her mother Puerto Rican—but still, she would never be mistaken for pure White Power stock.
Two hours later, she opened the app, having completely forgotten about her swipe, and was shocked to find that she’d been matched with Spector. Not only that, he’d sent her a polite message asking if she’d like to get dinner.
It was so absurd. The very idea of it. Sharing a meal with the country’s most visible and virulent white nationalist.
But the more she thought about it, the less it sounded like a joke and the more it seemed like an opportunity. Hatred like that didn’t grow in a vacuum. It was a seed that needed to be planted, watered, and nurtured. Maybe this was a chance to, if not talk some sense into him, at least show him a small bit of kindness, in the hopes it might plant a different kind of seed.
Or, maybe he had a thing for colored girls and she could expose him as being completely full of shit.