99 Ways to Die

by Ed Lin

  I set down my jujubes and other day-market finds, and washed my hands in the sink. I dried my hands and approached him, thumbs in my pockets.

  “Hey, Frankie,” I said.

  He gave me a brief nod and remained seated straight in his plastic stool. Frankie hadn’t bothered looking at me fully, and kept his eyes on his hands running unclean offal under water streaming from a hose. Waste and water ran down a drain set in the asphalt.

  “Frankie, can I ask you something?”

  He looked at me. “You just did.” His face twitched, showing flashes of humor and concern.

  I shifted my feet and gave a fake laugh. He didn’t show off his wit too often, but Frankie was quick with the teasing. I think it’s a mainlander mannerism meant to keep the younger generations in line. At least he was gentle about it. I grew up seeing some waishengren parents just ream their kids loudly in public simply for perceived infractions.

  I pulled up a stool next to him and just to show that I was somewhat serious, I began to take up the same work. I grabbed a choice pig intestine and cut away the membrane that held it together. Once freed, the small intestine spooled out to several feet in the tub.

  “Frankie,” I said as casually as possible, “I need help with a problem I’m having.”

  He pointed his feet at me and looked into my face. “A problem, huh? What can I do for you?”

  I hunched up my right shoulder and wiped a corner of my mouth against it. “You know a number of heidaoren,” I said. Frankie didn’t so much as blink but he also didn’t cut me off. I should tread carefully from here.

  I pinched salt from a nearby bowl and began to rub down the sides of the intestine in my hands. You only need a little bit to help scrub off the slime and the stink. I rinsed the intestine thoroughly before continuing.

  “I was wondering if you possibly knew who was behind the kidnapping or if you could think of anyone who could help the situation.”

  Frankie heaved an exhausted sigh and grabbed the intestine out of my hands. “You’re not doing it right,” he said, his voice devoid of emotion, making the statement an even harsher assessment of my work. It came off as, “You’ve never learned how to do it right, and you’ll never do it right!”

  I stood up and stupidly watched Frankie work. I pulled back both my arms and held my hands behind my back.

  “What do you say, Frankie? You know that Peggy’s dad is in serious danger.”

  I saw his right foot turn slightly. “Have you heard anything new since last night?”

  “Tong-tong managed to leave Peggy a voicemail. He gave her the name of a guy who might have what the kidnappers are looking for.”

  Frankie’s fingers flew through the limp organ, playing the supple flesh like a concert pianist. He considered what to say for a few measures.

  “His circumstances aren’t that bad if he can get to a phone,” he ventured. “Or his kidnappers are pure amateurs. Either way, he’s in a bad spot, but it’s not the worst possible scenario.” He tossed the intestine without looking and it landed squarely in the bucket. “What exactly did he say?”

  “He told his daughter the name of the guy who has the chip design that the kidnappers want.”

  Frankie measured his breath as he inhaled and exhaled. “Then get the design from the guy, take it to the kidnappers and they’ll release Tong-tong. Every delay, every move to try to outsmart them jeopardizes his life.” He shrugged while his hands continued to work. “You don’t need me to tell you this.”

  “It’s not that easy, Frankie. I’m gonna visit the guy in jail tomorrow, but what if he doesn’t have it anymore or refuses to hand it over? Things might be easier if you could help the cops rescue Tong-tong.”

  Frankie closed his mouth and ran his tongue over his teeth behind his smiling lips. “Look here, Jing-nan. I have known my friends for a long time. We only talk about old times and funny things that happened in the distant past. Stuff that’s beyond the reach of the statute of limitations. If I asked any of them about Tong-tong, they would take it as me implying they had something to do with it.” He set aside another clean intestine and looked at the ground. “I would rather die than insult any of my friends by giving them the impression that I was accusing them of . . . doing things.” He lifted his head and regarded me from an angle.

  I pressed my hands together in a gesture that I hoped Frankie found deferential. I returned to sit down on my plastic stool so my eyes were level with his.

  “You don’t have to accuse anybody. Maybe you could phrase it in a way that couldn’t possibly cause any offense.”

  Frankie exhaled as if he had just taken a long drag on a pipe. “Even if I found out exactly who the kidnappers were and where they were holed up, there could be a serious price to pay if the cops attempted a rescue. There would be a lot of blood and Tong-tong might not make it out alive. Just by asking, I might provide information that my friends could tip to the kidnappers. There could be blowback if they come after me.” He looked through me. “And you, too, Jing-nan. My way could be the way of death and misery. It should be your last resort. Try talking to your guy tomorrow. Sometimes jailbirds can be more helpful than you think.”

  I didn’t appreciate until that moment that I employed a man who had the potential to be a person of interest should I be found murdered. I always knew Frankie was familiar with a dangerous world, but I had thought that he could protect me. Now he was telling me he couldn’t.

  “Well, thank you, Frankie,” I said. “I will talk to the prisoner. Just, please, keep your eyes and ears open.”

  He turned on me as if I had insulted him. “Do I ever close them?”

  I scrambled for the words. “No, you don’t. But if you could pay extra special attention, I’d really appreciate it.” He didn’t seem appeased but he didn’t get up and quit, either. “I forgot to mention, happy Double Ninth.”

  He hunched his right shoulder to rub his face. “Thank you, Jing-nan.” Most of the tension was gone from his voice. “Are you going to give me an envelope because I’m a senior citizen?”

  Please smile again so I know you’re joking and that you’re not mad at me, Frankie. Please.

  “Do you want an envelope?” I asked.

  Finally, both ends of his mouth curled up into its familiar form, reminiscent of the Cheshire Cat. Everything was fine.

  What would I do if Frankie ever left Unknown Pleasures? I’d be working longer and harder for less money, that was for sure. I would have to hire more help. It would probably take at least two people to replace Frankie. I’d have to find a new meat connection, too, which would certainly cost more. The thought of less and less money coming in unnerved me.

  My hands shook as I opened up one sack of jujubes and washed them in the metal sink. As the water swirled down the drain, I thought about the turnover at other stands that eventually destroyed formerly thriving businesses. It’s hard to find the right chemistry that allows a group of people to come together and work hand-in-hand every night without wanting to kill each other. It’s even more difficult to find workers who are talented and driven, and yet lack the ambition and measure of self-worth to leave and start their own businesses. People with strong backs and weak spines are in high demand at the night markets.

  My guys could each easily strike out on his own. Honestly, I think the main reason why Frankie and Dwayne stick with me is out of loyalty to my grandfather and father for giving them a place to work when they were each down on their luck. They would probably be racked with guilt if they left me, the orphaned child of their old bosses. Then again, even guilt has its limits. I remembered that kids never felt bad about shoplifting from stores whose owners were mean, making them even meaner, creating a negative feedback cycle until the store closed.

  I shook off water from the jujubes and placed them on a towel to dry some more. I went to my phone to see what papers I needed to bring to vi
sit someone in prison.

  Dwayne arrived in due course and swung a small duffle bag off his shoulder in an exaggerated motion. Did Dwayne also bring a special ingredient for the night’s menu?

  “It can’t be that heavy,” I said. “Unless you brought coconuts.”

  His eyes narrowed. “I just hit the gym again for the first time in weeks. I’m in serious pain.” That was my cue to slap his right shoulder hard. “Ma de!” he cried. “Lay off of me, or I’m gonna sit out the night and won’t your ass be in a sling?”

  Frankie slapped Dwayne’s left shoulder and the big man nearly crumpled to his knees.

  “I never ask for mercy,” Dwayne panted. “Please don’t hit me, just for tonight.”

  “It’s like you’re doing a scene from a prison movie,” I said.

  Frankie scoffed at my remark. “You don’t know what prison’s like, Jing-nan. Your little visit tomorrow is going to be like going to jail in Monopoly.” He sized up Dwayne’s agony. “Well, I’m glad there won’t be any horseplay tonight,” he said without masking a tone of satisfaction. “When you two goof around, I half expect one of you to end up on the grill.”

  “We need to keep our traditions alive,” I said. Dwayne and I had play-wrestled since the night we first broke even under my watch a few years ago. It’s the closest thing to a religious ritual that I’m willing to participate in.

  Dwayne pointed a finger at my nose. “Your ancestors killed my people’s traditions. You stole our land and our languages. Now you want to dig up our graves!” He was referring to the latest news that the government planned a new highway that ran through sacred burial grounds of the Paiwan people.

  “You’re Amis, not Paiwan,” I said.

  “I represent all the legitimate Taiwanese,” Dwayne countered. “It was a mistake to let all you illegal-immigrant Chinese in. Some day soon, we’re gonna load all of you on to a boat and send you back to China where you belong. Wait and see.”

  “Are you gonna send Frankie back, too?”

  Dwayne raised an eyebrow. “The Cat can stay. He’s one of us. He hates Chinese people, too.”

  Frankie made a guttural sound that could have indicated agreement or disgust.

  My phone buzzed in my hand before I could think of a comeback. It was a text from Peggy.

  Turn on the TV, it said.

  Which channel? I texted back.

  Any.

  Dwayne must have seen the look of worry on my face. He came closer and cupped my right elbow.

  “What’s going on?” he asked.

  “Not sure yet,” I said. “Let’s go to Beefy King.”

  Beefy King was the steak place in the night market. Business was good for the King. It took up the space of three standard stalls and it offered a royal deal: Eat ten steaks in one sitting, and they were free. If you fell short, however, you had to pay for them all.

  In all honesty, I had a hard time eating just one of its pedestrian steaks. If you absolutely had to have the taste of a dirty grill and the mouthfeel of soggy cardboard, look no farther than Beefy King.

  It was actually difficult to look farther than Beefy King because it blared its menu from three huge flatscreen monitors mounted outside. Usually they displayed the menu while strategically cutting in loops of meat in flaming hell, but the inputs could be switched to cable television, when needed.

  It was early, but Uncle Bing, the guy who ran Beefy King, was already having a pretty good night, judging by the fact that there were two lines: one waiting to order and the other waiting for their orders.

  Uncle Bing was middle-aged and normal-sized, which suggested he didn’t get a lot of red meat in his diet. Dressed in a “Got Beef?” T-shirt and sipping a bitter-melon shake, Uncle Bing stood off to the side and watched his staff sweat it out. I approached him with my head bent in deference.

  “Uncle Bing,” I said. He nodded to me and Dwayne while continuing to sip. “I was wondering if you could do us a favor.” He raised his eyebrows but said nothing. “Could you change one of your monitors to a cable news station?”

  He glanced at his lines. They were already at capacity for a while. Uncle Bing had a pretty good business because he was pals with a guy who owned a bunch of hotels. The hotels sent over tourists who got 10 percent off their steaks in exchange for some kickback, I’m sure. Uncle Bing picked up a remote control and shook it once at the rightmost monitor because he couldn’t simply push a button without a grander gesture.

  The picture changed to a darkened image of what looked like two dogs in cages. Then the brightness adjusted—the footage was apparently from a phone camera. It was two grubby men in cages. The image gradually came into focus. Tong-tong was on the left, his face wracked by stress and embarrassment at being filmed. The other man, a heavyset cubicle creature, seemed to be having a harder time. His noisy mouth-breathing was the only sound audible and took on an orc-like quality as Uncle Bing turned up the volume of Beefy King’s PA system.

  A scrolling message along the bottom read, This is recorded from an Internet feed. There are disturbing images. Sensitive viewers are cautioned.

  A muffled off-screen voice declared, “Peggy Lee. We know you’ve gotten the police involved. We could’ve handled this safely and quickly but that’s all over now. If the chip design isn’t handed to us in forty-eight hours, we’re going to kill one of these animals.”

  The camera veered away from the caged men to a handgun hanging loosely from a gloved finger looped through the trigger guard.

  The camera dipped and then slid back to frame the two men. A foot swung out and kicked the fat man’s cage and he screamed like a bird. The off-screen voice barked again.

  “Forty-eight hours!”

  The screen went black. Two seconds later, a clearly rattled news anchor appeared. She was in her mid-twenties and seemed more attuned to happy news for happy people and entertaining news about weird people, but certainly not anything as disturbing as the live feed. The woman took a deep breath, squared her shoulders and said, “That is the latest information we have regarding Tong-tong’s kidnapping. As you’ve heard, there’s now a forty-eight-hour deadline before he or his underling is shot and, presumably, killed.”

  A second camera angle took over and she looked over her left shoulder into the camera.

  “We will continue to replay the feed. All other programming will be on hold until further notice.”

  Uncle Bing pointed the remote at me. “You want more, or is that enough, Mr. Chen?” he asked. The way he said “Mr. Chen” reminded me of an old principal.

  “I don’t need to see it again,” I said, glancing at Dwayne. I could recognize the small, scared child inside him, and seeing fear in his eyes made it palpable.

  “That was so fucked up, Jing-nan,” he said as he pressed his closed fists against his jaw.

  “Yeah, I know,” I said.

  Uncle Bing swung the remote to the screen. “I hate repeats,” he said. A miniature lightning strike went across the monitor and the merciless scroll through the hellish beef landscape resumed.

  “Hey!” called a man as he held an injured steak sandwich to his mouth. “Put the news back on!”

  “I want to see it, too!” called a woman who had just picked up her order. Uncle Bing observed them coldly and drummed his fingers against the bottom of his bitter-melon drink.

  “Get back in line and order more food,” he told them. The man and the woman exchanged incredulous looks. Uncle Bing searched their faces. “It’s going to look better up there than on your phone,” he added. The two returned to the line. Uncle Bing changed back to the news station and went to the order counter himself to speed up the repeat orders. Dwayne and I walked away, lest Uncle Bing pick on us next.

  “That was a no-joke real gun,” said Dwayne. “It’s a military issue. I have a cousin who had one.”

  “Do you think t
he kidnappers are ex-military?”

  “They gotta have some training and access to weapons. Pretty tough to learn kidnapping skills on YouTube.”

  My phone buzzed.

  48 hours WTF, Peggy’s texted. I’m counting on you to get that design tomorrow, Jing-nan.

  OK, I typed. What the hell else could I say? I’m sorry about your dad. I hope this turns out all right.

  On the walk back to Unknown Pleasures, I told Dwayne that I was going to visit Nancy’s former sugar daddy in prison, get the chip information from him and save Peggy’s dad. The plan sounded stupid to me as I was saying it.

  Dwayne shook his head and sighed. “Jing-nan, this whole situation sounds so twisted, it will have to work out somehow.”

  “Do you think so?”

  “Absolutely. It’s the simple things that wind up as disasters.”

  Simple things. Like jujube skewers.

  We stopped talking after we walked to our respective stations, Dwayne to the secondary grill and me to the prep area. The washed jujubes were arranged in pairs and eyed me with caution.

  Before I explained what I envisioned to Frankie and Dwayne, I cut up one myself and laid out the slices. I gave it a minute and then flipped them. I was glad that the grill marks were easily visible. People are hardwired to love them. They must be Jungian archetypes. I picked one up with silicone-tipped tongs, blew on it and bit off half. I pushed the fruit around my mouth before chewing it.

  The warmth brought out a caramel quality in the natural sugar. I should salt them slightly. This would be so good with crispy, salty bacon. Wait, what an idiot I was! I had to keep it vegan! Maybe rolled with some crushed nuts. No good. People are allergic to nuts.

  I had it. A light dusting of powdered dried chili. Just for taste, not enough for tears. What would alternate well with grilled jujube slices on a skewer? I popped the rest of the grilled jujube into my mouth and got my answer.