Is that really shitty of me?
23
Busan — Hong Kong
My freshman year in college, a friend of mine, a girl on my hall, was sexually assaulted. It didn’t occur on the campus; it happened while she was home for winter break. She was at the house of people she knew from high school, ended up drinking a little too much, and woke to find a guy on top of her. She didn’t even know who he was.
She came back to campus two days after the start of classes, much sooner than any of us expected. She didn’t tell anyone but we already knew because shit like that gets around, and I worried that this was going to be another one of those shit situations where she would eventually drop out because she simply couldn’t regain her footing. Mom warned us about this, when we were old enough to understand. She taught us to despise the kind of person who would intentionally destroy a life in this manner. It was good, solid, useful advice, but what I took away from it mostly seemed to be a continuous, low-simmer fear of being attacked myself. God, it scared the shit out of me.
I called Mom the first day Becca was back. I wanted to ask her what I should do and it was Mom who suggested that I go and sit with my friend and be there for her. I wanted to cry when I first saw her because something inside me worried that I might end up looking like that someday — worn out, beaten down, so terribly sad. She was sitting on her bunk, pillows propping her up against the wall, and I sat on the floor, my back to her bed, and we stayed that way for a long time until I finally decided that she must be waiting for me to say something first, so I asked her if she was okay. She laughed and cried at the same time and I felt terrible, thinking it was exactly the wrong thing to ask. I mean, how the hell could she possibly feel okay? I apologized but she brushed the apology aside and said You’re fine. You’re fine. She then came over and put her arms around my neck and hugged me for a moment. Then, with a voice tightened by tears, she thanked me for not asking Was he black?
What?
Becca told me that back home, among family and friends, the first question everyone asked one another, asked her, was Was he black? That was the reason for her coming back so soon. She had to get away from them because she couldn’t stand it anymore.
I felt terrible for poor Becca, for what she had to endure, but my head raced with the injustice of it all. It made me angry.
My Dad is a black man!
We arrive in Hong Kong somewhere around one in the morning, because it’s the first flight out of Busan where we could get seats. We had hidden among the rush as the building was evacuated and found a cab that was willing to take us back to our hotel despite Mia looking like she should be going to the emergency room instead. The concierge sent up a doctor who stitched up Mia’s arm, cleaned our various scrapes and wounds, and refrained from asking any questions. I guess that’s the kind of service you get when staying in the pricier suites of the most expensive hotels.
We had to get out. We couldn’t be sure that we weren’t recorded and it would only be a matter of time before they started checking the airports. We didn’t allow ourselves to relax until we were in the air and only then did Mia let out a breath and put her arm around me. We must’ve been quite a sight, all beaten and bruised. The other passengers eyed us warily. I mean, a black and a Hispanic — we must be up to no good.
She kissed the side of my head and said That didn’t go as I expected. I didn’t say anything in return. I was feeling much too ambivalent. Part of me felt a thrill, because it seemed as though it was now me and her against the world. At the same time, I had to wonder…Should I be nervous about my travel companion?
It also saddens me that Roland Park-White will never have the chance to take his sister to that playground.
Mia is still in a lot of pain, so after we arrive, she immediately takes some of the pills the doctor in Busan had given her and crawls into bed to sleep. I can’t sleep at all. My brain is buzzing and I spend the time going through all of the potential scenarios that may play out over the next couple of days. I sit out in the front room, a chair pulled over to the window so I can watch the harbor and the city pass from dawn into the afternoon. I go to check on her and only once do I find her awake, looking for a glass of water and another one of her pills. I tell her that I’ll be downstairs for a while as I tuck her in. I need to get out of there because the opulence, the comfort of my surroundings — they have to be clouding my judgment.
I need time to think.
There’s a mall down at the base of the building and I wander there for close to two hours. It’s not like any mall I have ever been to before, with its Louis Vuitton, Prada, and Giorgio Armani shops — no Sears or JC Penney. Some of the shoppers gawk at me, but keep their distance and no one recognizes me, as easily recognizable as I am. I guess there’s no stories in the tabloids about Disfigured Mystery Dark Woman and Friend Kill Billionaire Death Merchant.
I reach into my pocket, find the device and play with it between my fingers — which I’ve been doing almost since the moment we escaped that building. This thing is the only thing I can be certain of. I still haven’t told Mia about it because…well, I still don’t know how this is going to go. What will put me in the best possible position in the end?
I’m alone, and my family has no idea where I’ve disappeared to.
My folks had no idea of what happened to me for the near year I was in L.A. I mean, what was the point other than have me worrying about Mom and Dad worrying about me? I couldn’t have that kind of shit fucking with my head. I needed to fully integrate myself into my new world and there was no place for moms and dads sitting around fretting over their daughters.
The first they found out about what I was really doing was when they came to find me laying in a hospital bed, looking, according to Mom, like a tiny little preemie with all sorts of tubes and wires coming off of you. She told me that she had been worried sick ever since I joined the Bureau, but didn’t say anything because she raised me to be a strong, independent woman capable of making my own decisions. She was proud of me, she said, but she wasn’t very happy with the choice I made.
They stayed in L.A. for a short while, then traveled out on occasion as I slowly recovered. It was also around that time that the bu-boys started showing up again to ask more questions about what had gone wrong. How did three bodies end up at my feet? It was still early and they were trying to figure out if a crime had been committed in relation to those bodies. I didn’t even think about what might be going on in the background. I told them everything they needed to know, nothing more.
Why does it appear that Mateo saved you from the dogs if he was planning to kill you anyway?
What are you going to say? Situations like that go batshit crazy once the guns come out. People start shooting without really thinking and it all becomes reaction after reaction after reaction until there’s nothing left. Why did Mateo shoot the dogs? Maybe because it’s a terrifying way to watch a person die. Maybe he felt sorry for me, or threatened by Dio and Ganza. How the fuck was I supposed to know? Why the fuck would I care? I was being torn apart.
So they decided to label all three as “justifiable homicide” and things appeared to be good.
Except they weren’t.
I killed Angel. Stabbed him twenty-seven times with his own pen because the fucker had raped me. I thought he was kidding around, when he grabbed me from behind and lifted me from the floor. I thought he was going to toss me over the back of the couch, onto the cushions, because he had done that before.
I was fucking laughing!
There were pens all over the place. He had a favorite brand because after getting out of CMC East, he said he felt vulnerable if he wasn’t carrying some form of shiv and this particular pen was tough. The problem was that he kept losing them, so look anywhere in his place and you’d find a pen lying nearby. I found one under the back corner of the couch. He had me pinned to the floor and I had a clear view of all the shit that collected up under there.
That was justifiabl
e homicide.
The dogs, Dio and Ganza, got loose after I thought Angel was dead. He was dumping blood all over the floor from where I tore open his throat, but he had enough in him to press the button on this little fob he always had strapped to his belt. I figured it was for his car, but what it did was open the link of those damned dogs’ collars, releasing them from their chains. They came at me over the back of the couch.
It’s the worst sensation in the world, being lucid while your head is in the mouth of an animal that intends to devour you. I was blinded by the saliva, could feel Dio’s tongue slipping over my face, lapping up my blood. From deep inside his throat, there was a rumbling growl and parts of me would soon be sliding down there. First, he had to wrench me free from Ganza, who had hold of my torso with his teeth. I was a plaything that they were pulling apart as they fought over possession.
I’ve heard people say that being set on fire is terrible, but believe me, I am almost certain that being eaten alive is much, much worse.
It was Mateo who killed the dogs. He came in and shot Ganza in the back of the head, clipping my ribs when the round came out through the roof of the dog’s mouth. He then put a second round through the base of Dio’s skull, trying very hard not to hit my face, which Dio had in his jaws. He then hefted me up and started dragging me out of there, telling me that he was going to get me to the hospital. Mateo always had something of a crush on me.
Luis arrived and pulled his weapon, stating that he was going to kill me because I was a Fed. Mateo blocked him by putting himself between me and Luis and the two argued over what had to be done. All three of us knew that the cops would be arriving at any moment. Luis informed Mateo that he couldn’t allow me to leave alive.
I took Mateo’s gun, which was still dangling in his hand, stepped around him, and put a round into Luis’ face.
That was justifiable as well.
Mateo was in shock. This shit was happening too fast for him. Outside, we could hear the siren of an arriving cruiser and he was fixating on his dead friend, trying to figure out what he should do next.
It was possible that Mateo knew about me — Byr, the money, the deal. I couldn’t have him talking to the police.
I turned, stepped back, and put a bullet right beneath his ear.
That would not be considered justifiable, if anyone knew.
Mom was there when the agents asked me a couple of follow-up questions concerning my relationship with Angel. What could I tell them? Yes, we were friends, we flirted, but every meeting was business, there was nothing happening on the side.
So why’d I stab him so many times? Didn’t that seem excessive? Didn’t it seem to indicate an act of passion?
Fuck you!
After they left, Mom came to my bedside and she was disturbed. She took my one good hand, holding it in both of hers, and then tried to comfort me with soft, hushed words of understanding.
He was Hispanic.
Fuck, Mom. I thought you were better than that.
I call Getting, to see if he has anything to do with what happened in Busan. All he wants to know is our location, and if it’s possible that the Garcia woman has the thing necessary to read the card. As long as the reader exists, Getting will worry, because the data is probably all over the internet by now but it’s only the reader that puts him in any real danger.
Maybe he’s decided to say Fuck it! and tried to deal with all of his problems at one time.
“I know she and Mr. Park-White didn’t have a chance to meet.”
“You were with her the whole time.”
“What? No. Not the whole time.”
“So you can’t be certain she doesn’t have it.”
Yes, I can be certain, seeing that I’m playing with the damned thing in my pocket right at that moment, but, “No. I guess not.” I consider my options for a moment. “I’ll look through her stuff when I get the chance.”
“Where do you head next?”
I clap the phone shut on him. He probably thinks I didn’t hear the question, but I heard the question. I’m just not going to tell him shit for the moment.
Okay, let me get the horrible stereotype out of the way.
I didn’t know that Asians could be so fucking big.
“Fucking kick the bastard!”
God, it feels like my arm is going to be torn from its socket.
“Kick ‘im!”
Mia is looking down at me as though I had puked and she’s trying to figure out some way to help without getting anything on herself. She’s frozen — natural for civilians, but at any second, my hold is going to break and things are about to go from horribly bad to truly fucking worse.
And then she fucking goes somewhere!
When I had come into the room, the bastard was on top of Mia, pressing her face down into the duvet as he pulled back on the length of nylon cord that he had around her neck. I didn’t have time to think — I launched myself up onto the guy, running up the back of his legs, slipping an arm under his chin, and locking it in place with my elbow. I then braced my knees against him, pushing into his spine, and pulled until he had to let go of Mia to deal with me. It’s when he stood up that I find out how really big this bastard is. I mean, about every guy over twelve years old is bigger than I am, but when this guy stood up, he nearly flung me right off into the ceiling. My legs slipped and my feet swung through the air as he turned circles, swiping shit off of tables, and he grabbed handfuls of my hair so that I was screaming in his ear as I kicked blindly, trying to find the back of his knees.
Fuck! I wanted to laugh out loud because, if it wasn’t for the circumstance, I might consider this kind of fun. Like hanging onto an out-of-control amusement park ride that’s trying its best to kill you.
I felt my hold slipping, so I wrapped my legs around the guy’s waist and locked my ankles together until I could get myself settled. This bastard was big and definitely damned strong, but he had two things working against him. First, he was clearly inexperienced with defending himself against a chokehold, and he was fucking fit so he had no extra fat around his middle and my legs could reach around. If this had been a fat bastard, this might’ve been a whole lot tougher. As it was, my fucked-up left arm is so thin that I could get it far up under his chin and really press on his carotid. But I was tiring quick. If he didn’t slack off soon, he would get the best of me.
I almost lost him when he stumbled, his knee slamming into something so that it buckled, and he fell sideways and then back, landing on top of me, crushing me under his weight. Jesus, this was one dense fucker! I then used everything I had left in me to get my knees up under the small of his back and lift him off. This arched his body, made it easier for him to reach back, but at this point, he was struggling; he was working with an oxygen-depleted brain and he flailed. If only I could hold on for a few moments longer.
That’s when I told her to Fucking kick the bastard!
Now where the fuck did she go?
Mia appears again with something in her hand. A shoe. She’s barefoot, still in bed when I last saw her, and now she has the composure to realize that bare feet are not the right thing for kicking someone in the ribs. She tugs the shoe on until it’s snug and then grabs the laces to pull them tight, not tying them so they flail about, whipping into his face as she kicks the shit out of him and almost catches me in the eye.
She slams her toe into the guy’s ribs and he coughs out the last of his air, but I’m almost spent as well. At any moment, I’m going to lose my grip and, if this guy has anything left, the sudden rush of oxygen to his brain may give him the clarity to realize that he can simply squish me if he really wants to.
“Stomp! Stomp down on his ribs!”
Mia stops kicking and looks at me as though she’s about to ask me to be more specific. Jesus, if I could, I would slap her silly. Finally, she catches on and comes down on the guy’s ribs with her heel, smashing again and again, smashing me into the floor in the process. It’s all over for me but then the
guy’s body goes suddenly slack. He becomes dead weight on top of me as he passes out.
Jesus, what a brute.
We’re at the Hong Kong International airport — again — making another quick exit from another country. Mia said very little as we travelled by taxi from the hotel. She seems to have a lot of things going through her mind and only when we arrive does she seem to relax…. No, that’s not right. It looks more like she’s come to a decision.
There’s a Starbucks in the terminal (of course) and Mia asks me to go get her a latte while she ducks into the women’s to change her top — there’s a smear of blood on the sleeve and we can’t tell for sure whose it is. When I get back, I wait, cup of coffee in hand, for close to fifteen minutes before I go in to look for her. She doesn’t answer when I call out. I try my phone, thinking I might hear the ringtone, but it goes directly to voicemail.
What’s going on?
I wander back out and wait for nearly an hour, stupid coffee growing colder in hand as I search the passing crowds. Maybe she could’ve walked right past me, didn’t see me. I try calling again but all I ever reach is that damned frustrating voicemail. I leave a message, telling her where I am, that I’m waiting for her. By the third message, I doubt she’ll be able to understand what I’m saying because I’m in tears.
Most anyone else might worry that she had been snatched — taken away — but I’m not most people. I’ve been here before, I understand what this is and who I am — the stupid, pathetic little Coloured girl standing in an airport, bawling her eyes out.
Shit, I never learn.
24
Hong Kong — Helsinki — Keflavík
Getting is pissed when I call to let him know that I’ve lost Garcia, but his attitude quickly shifts when he finds out that I have the card reader in my possession. I tell him that I need money. Lots of money.
Zwerfster Chic Page 22