The Bodge Job by Alexander Max

Author:Alexander, Max
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: anonymous
Published: 2024-05-08T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter twenty-two

“That went well,” said T.K.

He and Richard were walking east on Forty-ninth Street. It had started to rain lightly. The thick steel plates over the open crypts of New York’s endless street work glistened, and thin films of motor oil formed rainbow patterns under rushing car headlights.

“Now that was the proper application of the Heimlich Maneuver,” said Richard. “You saved that guy’s life, what’s left of it. Could have been his last meal.”

“I guess that was our last meal at Tout Va Bien. I’m sorry.”

“No need to apologize. We were never going to finish that guidebook anyway. Anyway it was the best fun I’ve had with my pants on in ages. Besides, he attacked you. And no one died.”

“Because generally someone does die when I’m around,” said T.K.

They turned down Seventh Avenue and walked a block in silence, dodging umbrellas. Finally Richard said, “Did you know I never saw a cloud in my entire childhood?”

“Huh?”

“Growing up in LA there were never any clouds. I mean those big puffy clouds like the kind that march up and down the Hudson out my office window. Even when it rained it was just...grey, like the smog. When I came East and saw clouds, I was amazed at how beautiful they were. And I’ve loved them ever since. Even the dark ones. I guess for most people clouds are sort of a downer, but they’ve always put me in the best mood. When the sky is bright and sunny I’m bored to tears. Strange, isn’t it?”

“You never told me this before.”

“To be honest I’d rather talk about women. Why don’t I put you in touch with that special friend I mentioned? Do you a world of good. You seem awfully distracted by all this. You need to live in the moment. You’re too anxious.”

“Anxious people tend to survive.”

“She’s Chinese actually.”

T.K. stopped walking. “Your whore? You mean Chinese Chinese?”

“Chinese Chinese. Her name is Lao. From somewhere in the middle of China where they found those stone soldiers.”

“Xian.”

“That’s it.”

“The terracotta army. Thousands of life-size soldiers from the First Empire. They were meant to protect the emperor’s tomb. Found by a farmer digging a well in the Seventies.”

“That’s the place. She talks about it. Had a rough time apparently—one of those grim abortions you’ve been writing about, now I think about it. I never pressed her for the details.”

T.K. turned his gaze down Seventh Avenue to the kinetic sales pitch of Times Square. A giant naked Lady Gaga lay prone across a billboard, her breasts crawling with Lilliputian men who formed a chain-link bra. “What’s her number?”

“I’ll text you.”

“No texts. Just tell me. I’ll remember.”

“Okay,” Richard said, pulling out his phone. “It’s a UK mobile, so country code forty-four.” He read it off and they parted; as Richard stepped off the curb he turned to T.K. and said, “To the last of the Friday Night Guys!”

“Hey, that terracotta army?” said T.K. “The emperor wanted it secret, so he killed all the artists when they finished. Hundreds of carvers worked their whole lives on the army.

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