Take-Out by Rob Hart

Author:Rob Hart [Hart, Rob]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Fiction
Publisher: Polis Books
Published: 2018-09-18T04:00:00+00:00

HAROLD PUSHED THROUGH the door of Happy Dumpling. It was just before the dinner rush but the restaurant still had more full tables than empty tables.

He walked to the back and the man at the register didn’t acknowledge him as he ducked past the curtain separating the kitchen from the seating area. Harold’s glasses fogged up from steam coming off the dishwashing station. He took them off to rub dry on his shirt and waved to Bai, who was hunched over a wok, swirling something around with a large metal spatula.

Bai looked up, smiled and nodded, sweat dripping down his bald head.

Harold was glad Bai was working. The line cook would occasionally come out and offer him plates of food. Dishes he recognized—beef chow fun or pork fried rice—but sometimes things he wasn’t used to, like crispy chicken feet, or a meat he couldn’t identify in a chili bean sauce. All of it absurdly delicious.

That, at least, was something to look forward to.

Harold cut a hard left into a narrow stairwell. At the top of the stairs was a red door. He knocked and waited until an older woman wearing a green accountant’s visor opened it. She looked at him like he was a stray dog.

“Gweilo,” she said under her breath.

Which meant “white devil.”

They sure knew how to make him feel welcome.

Harold stepped into the main room, crowded with elderly Chinese immigrants, mostly from the Fuijan province, according to Wen. They were huddled around flimsy poker tables, playing pai gow and mah jong, the tiles clacking like insects. Nearly everyone was smoking, and with the windows boarded up, the smoke didn’t have much to do but collect into a heavy cloud that hung in the air.

Harold crossed the room, turning sideways to slide through the thin pathways between chairs, and stepped into the back room, where the blackjack and poker tables were empty. They wouldn’t fill up for another few hours, at least.

Mr. Mo was sitting at the small desk in the corner, a cigarette dangling from his lip, counting out a thick stack of money. Harold looked at the stack and his breath caught in his chest. They were high-denomination bills. A lot of them. He ran the math in his head. Just a quick guess, based on the thickness and the speed at which Mr. Mo was counting. There had to be at least ten grand there, maybe more.

That was two months’ rent, his phone bill, and a few child support payments.

It was enough to make the next few months of his life very comfortable.

He thought about how easy it would be to pick up something heavy, lay it hard over Mr. Mo’s head. The man was often surrounded by young guys with ornate tattoos and cement faces. The Triad goons. None of them were here today. There was no one to defend him, just senior citizens who couldn’t be budged from their pai gow for anything short of a nuclear strike.

Mr. Mo stopped counting and looked up.

Did

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