The Best American Mystery Stories 2018

Rob Hart TAKEOUT ^{from Mystery Tribune}

Harold was dozing, his head rested against the tiled wall behind his chair, when Mr. Mo placed the brown paper bag in front of him. The bag was nested inside a milky-white plastic shopping bag, through which Harold could make out plastic utensils, packets of soy sauce, napkins, and a folded-up menu. Stapled to the top was a slip with an address on Mott Street.

“Crispy-skin fish rolls,” Mr. Mo said, his high voice cracking like a whip.

Harold looked up at Mr. Mo. The man’s face was flat and unreadable. His blue polo shirt stained with splotches of cooking grease, his slight potbelly and narrow limbs not really fitting into the shirt right. He could have been thirty or fifty. He only ever spoke English when he gave Harold a delivery.

He spoke English one other time, on Harold’s first night. Harold had sat down and pulled an electronic poker game up on his phone. Mr. Mo took the phone out of his hand, turned it off, and smacked it on the table. He placed a Chinese-language newspaper over the phone.

“No play,” he said. “Read.”

“But I can’t read Chinese,” Harold protested.

“Read,” Mr. Mo said, tapping his finger against the newsprint.

It had been three weeks, and Harold’s Chinese hadn’t gotten any better, so he looked at the pictures or dozed off until it was time to work.

Harold picked up the latest delivery and exited Happy Dumpling. The evening air was the kind of humid that made it hard to breathe. It was late, probably getting close to midnight, which meant this would, with any luck, be his last trip for the evening.

He hefted the bag, trying to guess at the contents. Then he pulled out his phone and punched in the address. It was close—just below Grand. He walked north, cut down Hester, and made a right. Found an apartment building with a nail salon on the first floor. The number 4 was circled on the receipt, so Harold hit 4 on the ancient buzzer.

After a few moments the door screamed at him and he pushed it open, climbed the narrow staircase to the fourth floor, where he found himself in front of a door painted glossy black, chipped in spots, gunmetal gray underneath. There was a peephole set at eye level.

The door was ajar, and it opened as soon as Harold stepped in front of it. A frail Chinese man in a wrinkled dress shirt and slacks, his white hair thinning, peered out from inside of the darkened apartment.

Harold opened the bag, first undoing the staple that held it closed, then reaching in for the white takeout container.

He hated this part. The anticipation.

Sometimes he had to bring something back to Mr. Mo. Sometimes he didn’t. He wasn’t always sure which. Mr. Mo wasn’t big on instructions. This was the first time he’d gotten an order for crispy-skin fish rolls and he wasn’t sure what that meant.

Harold placed the bag on the ground and opened up the takeout container, his hands shaking a little. Inside was a single pear. He looked at it for a moment, then took it out and offered it to the man, who breathed in sharply and put his hand to his mouth. Tears cut down his cheeks and he began to shake.

Harold pushed the pear forward into the space between them, but the man refused to take it. Instead he took a step back. Harold got the sense he wouldn’t be bringing anything back to Mr. Mo tonight, so he put the pear on the floor in front of the door and left.

As he climbed down the stairs, he thought he heard the man weeping.

“Pears are taboo in Chinese culture,” said Wen, putting his pint glass on the bar top, missing the coaster by a wide margin. He wiped the sleeve of his MTA-issue baby-blue dress shirt across his mouth. “The Chinese word for pear sounds like the Chinese word for parting. If I had to guess, it was a warning or threat. Mr. Mo is going to take something from him.”

“Not like… his life or something?” Harold asked, his voice low, glancing around the mostly empty bar to make sure no one else was listening. The only person even close to earshot was the bartender, a pretty college girl in a halter top and a cowboy hat. She was down at the other end of the bar and seemed more interested in the Yankees game playing on the television mounted in the corner.

“Probably not,” Wen said, undoing his ponytail, then doing it back up. After a moment he repeated himself. “Probably not.”

“Weird,” Harold said, taking a small pull of his beer. “Something is unlucky just because it sounds like something else that’s not good.”

“We’re a superstitious people,” Wen said. “In China the number four is sì. It sounds like sī, the word for death. So four is a very unlucky number. In buildings in China there’s no fourth floor, or fourteenth, or twenty-fourth.”

“Why so superstitious?” Harold asked. “I thought Chinese people were supposed to be like… smart?”

“First, that’s offensive,” Wen said. “There are plenty of superstitious people in the world. Race has nothing to do with it. Second, it’s just a cultural thing. But I’m second generation. I don’t actually understand any of this stuff. Mostly just what I remember from my grandparents.”

Harold exhaled. Contemplated his half-empty beer. It was already warm, but he couldn’t afford another. So he’d have to make this last a little while longer, because it felt good to be out. To pretend like Wen was a real friend and not just another sad sack he shared bar space with.

“At least I didn’t have to deliver anything more than fruit,” Harold said. “Just, you know, I was a little worried when I started this. The kind of stuff he might want me to do.”

“Mr. Mo doesn’t make his delivery boys do any real dirty work,” said Wen. “He has triad goons for the real hardcore stuff.”

“I can’t wait until this is over,” Harold said. “It’s hell on my nerves.”

The Yankees batter knocked in a home run, putting the team up by two. Wen pumped his fist. Probably had money on the game. “You made your bed,” he said. “Now it’s time to curl up and get some sleep.”

“You’re the one who got me wrapped up in this.”

Wen shook his head, threw Harold a side-eye glance. “I got you in the door. You lost big and ran a tab on the house. I told you that was a bad idea. That’s on you.”

As much as Harold wanted to protest, Wen was right.

He had no one to blame but himself.

As per usual.

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. They were huddled around flimsy poker tables, playing pai gow and mahjong, 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 he know what Harold was considering? Harold felt dread bubbling in his stomach, threatening to escape his mouth and heave onto the floor.

After what seemed like a full minute Mr. Mo shrugged, as if to ask, What?

“I’m on tonight?” Harold asked.

Harold came in every day to ask, and Mr. Mo would tell him to work or not. Presumably one day he would tell him he was done, but Harold had no idea how long the terms of the assignment were for. With a debt to the house of $25,000, he didn’t expect it would be anytime soon.

Still, he held his breath. Prayed Mr. Mo would shoo him away, tell him never to return. Harold would give anything for that.

But Mr. Mo nodded. That meant Harold was on duty.

He crossed back through the smoke-filled room. Down the stairs and through the kitchen to the front of the restaurant, the smell of cigarettes clinging to his clothes. He sat at the small table in the corner by the register that no one else ever sat at, next to the fish tank filled with silver and orange fish floating through murky water. He opened the Chinese newspaper that was waiting and flipped through slowly, looking at the pictures.

“Clams in chicken soup,” Mr. Mo said, placing a bag down in front of Harold.

Clams in chicken soup. This one he remembered. It was a collection. The Chinese food container would be empty, and he would have to wait for something to be placed inside, then bring it back.

Usually the addresses he delivered to were within a ten-block radius of the restaurant, but this one was different. On Eighth Avenue, up in the twenties. It would take about forty minutes to walk there. That was too much. Though Harold was generally in favor of wasting time, he didn’t feel comfortable taking that long, so he headed for the F train, which would get him most of the way there.

He was happy to see there weren’t any cops down in the station. No one in the token booth either. He stood by the gate for five minutes before a mother pushing a stroller came through. He reached over to hold it for her as she maneuvered the stroller out, and he ducked in before it closed.

Seeing the stroller made his chest ache. Cindy was older now, six or seven by his best guess. He only ever remembered her as small enough to push around in a carriage. Back before Marguerite changed the locks and left a packed suitcase outside the apartment door for him to find one morning, when he finally mustered the courage to stumble home.

As he waited for the train, the ache in Harold’s chest grew bigger. He promised himself that when this gig with Mr. Mo was done, he would make the changes he needed to make.

Get treatment for his addiction.

Find a steady job.

Take those tiny little baby steps that, once accumulated, would maybe allow him to see his daughter again.

He knew things would never be the same, knew he could never make up for it entirely. But he was sure he could at least make things better than this.

Another narrow stairway, another red door. This one had a small security camera mounted to the ceiling above it. Harold looked into the bulbous eye before knocking on the sign that said RED SPA 22 on a white sign in red lettering.

Red was a color of good luck. This is also why Chinese takeout containers had red script on them, even though they were an American invention. More trivia, courtesy of Wen.

The door opened and a petite woman peeked out. She was barefoot, wearing a slinky black dress, her hair pulled back into a tight bun. Older, odd strands of hair gone gray, but she had the energy and smile of a young woman. She reached for Harold’s hand, pulled him inside.

There was a main room with a desk, and to Harold’s left a long hallway with six doors. The lighting was dim, and soft music played from hidden speakers. He was pretty sure it was Debussy’s “Clair de Lune,” the delicate piano notes falling around them like raindrops. The woman smiled and snapped her fingers. Another door opened, this time to the right, and three girls came out. All of them much younger. All smiling and done up for a night on the town, also barefoot.

“You choose favorite,” the woman said.

Harold shook his head. “No, no. Delivery.”

He held up the bag, tried to hide how nervous he was, because the women were pretty and it had been a long time since he’d been around a pretty woman, let alone several.

“Mr. Mo,” he said.

The woman’s smile disappeared. She snapped her fingers again and the women disappeared too. She took the bag from Harold and walked to the desk. Took out the Chinese food container and filled it with rolled-up wads of cash.

When she was done she could barely close it, but she managed to get the flaps down and placed it back in the bag and handed it to Harold. She was robotic now, all business. She quickly moved around him and opened the door. Harold stepped into the hallway and she closed it. The deadbolt scratched as it slid into place.

Harold made it down to the sidewalk and stood under the awn­ing of the fried chicken restaurant on the first floor of the building. It was starting to rain, fat drops smacking the pavement. He clutched the bag to his chest.

Thought about the money.

Not as much as Mr. Mo had earlier in the day, but still, it looked like a lot.

Maybe enough?

Harold took out his cell and dialed Wen. He’d never called Wen before, only texted, so when Wen answered, his “What’s up?” was weighted with surprise and concern.

“Just had a question I needed to run by you,” Harold said. “Some advice.”

“Okay. Shoot.”

“Mr. Mo. How dangerous is he, exactly?”

“Ah.” Wen laughed. “Let me guess. You’re running some money for him right now? And you’re thinking of taking off?”

“Can you blame me?”

Pause. “Listen, just do the job like you’re supposed to.”

“How would he even find me?”

“Jeez, Harold. You don’t want to mess with this guy. I know it’s tempting, but look, I know you’re trying to make good right now. This isn’t the way to do it. Besides, I wouldn’t be surprised if he has someone keeping an eye on you right now. So get the hell off the phone and get back to the restaurant.”

Harold’s heart skipped around in his chest. He surveyed the street. It was late, and most passersby were young people, stumbling home or headed to the next bar. But across the street was a man leaning against a parking meter, smoking a cigarette, wearing a gray hoodie, the hood pulled up over his head so his face was cast in shadow.

He wasn’t looking at Harold, but he was looking in Harold’s direction.

“Okay,” Harold said. “Thanks, Wen.”

“You’ll be fine. Remember, I had to do this once too. It’ll all be over soon. Maybe I can talk to him. See if we can speed things along.”

Relief washed over Harold. “Thank you. I would really appreciate it.”

“Hey, what are friends for?” Wen asked.

Harold hung up. Looked across the street and saw the man was still there, still looking in his direction. Harold stepped to the curb and hailed a cab. He didn’t want to spend the money, but thought it would be better for his overall health to hurry back.

As soon as Harold walked in the door, Mr. Mo handed him another bag.

“Crispy-skin fish rolls,” he said.

Another pear then. A little depressing, but easy enough.

This address was close. The rain had picked up on the cab ride over. Harold walked closer to the buildings, ducking under awn­ings to stay out of it, not doing a great job. By the time he got to the address he was nearly soaked.

There was a Chinese grocery on the first floor. It reeked of fish. An older couple sprayed down the empty display cases out front, foamy water running into the street.

Harold found the door propped open and climbed to the second floor, his shoes squeaking and squishing on the steps. He knocked on the green-painted metal door. It flung open and a young Chinese man with spiked hair and black plastic glasses looked at him with confusion and, upon seeing the bag, rolled his eyes.

The man tore the bag from Harold’s hands, opened it, and took out the container, letting the bag fall to the floor. He opened the container and took out the pear, took a deep breath, and threw it at Harold’s chest as he yelled something in Chinese.

The pear thumped hard enough to make Harold wince. He took a step back and put up his hands. “I’m sorry, I don’t understand…”

The man threw out his fist. Harold moved to the side and it glanced off his head, knocking his glasses to the floor. He stumbled over his own feet and fell to the ground as the man drove his foot into Harold’s head. Harold put his arms up, tried to protect himself as the man threw his foot into him again and again.

After a dozen or so kicks, the man spat and went inside the apartment, slamming the door. Harold searched for his glasses, and was happy to find they were still intact. Waves of pain pummeled his body and he was content to lie on the linoleum tile for a few minutes until the worst of it subsided, but he changed his mind when he saw a fat, shiny roach scuttling toward him.

Mr. Mo sat at his desk, cigarette dangling from his lip, as Harold told him what happened. After Harold finished, Mr. Mo continued to stare at him, like there was more story to tell. Harold shrugged and let his arms flop down to his sides.

Mr. Mo took the cigarette out of his mouth, tapped the end of it into the overflowing ashtray on the desk, and nodded. Harold wondered if Mr. Mo even understood half of what he said. It never seemed like he did.

Harold went back downstairs. Stopped in the dingy bathroom to survey the wreckage of his face, found there was a cut on his hairline, a thin stream of blood trickling down to his eyebrow. A fat bruise blooming under his left eye.

He wet some paper towels, cleaned himself up the best he could, and went back out to his table and chair. It wasn’t long before Bai came out and put down a plate of steamed dumplings with a dark brown dipping sauce.

Bai looked at Harold’s face and placed his hand on Harold’s shoulder.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

Harold was a little surprised to find the man spoke English. They’d never exchanged words before, outside of a passing introduction on Harold’s first day.

“Not your fault,” Harold said. “Thank you for the food. I appreciate it.”

“It’s not usually like this,” Bai said. “It shouldn’t be for too much longer.”

“My friend Wen said he’s going to help me,” Harold said.

Bai made a face, and Harold got very nervous. Like maybe he shouldn’t have said that. The man worked for Mr. Mo. Maybe it would have been better to just keep his mouth shut.

But Bai looked around. The man at the register was on the phone and the restaurant was mostly empty. After confirming there was no one close to them, Bai said, “Your friend Wen is the reason you’re here.”

Harold felt his stomach twist. “What does that mean?”

The curtain behind them parted and Mr. Mo peeked out. Bai smiled, said something in Chinese, and ducked back into the kitchen.

After Mr. Mo dismissed him for the night, Harold wasn’t sure what to do. He wanted to go home, to sleep, because his body ached and his head hurt and he thought one of his teeth might be loose.

But he couldn’t shake what Bai had said.

So he walked toward Dizzy’s, where he and Wen would often wind up. He wondered if Wen would be there, or if tonight he was working, driving the M23 bus back and forth across midtown Manhattan.

Harold thought back to the night they met. They had both been tossed out of a late-night poker spot in the basement of a West Village bar on the corner of Sullivan. Harold for running a debt, Wen for arguing with the owner over the jacked-up price of the beer.

Before that night they’d been familiar to each other. Two addicts orbiting each other in the darkness of the city’s less-than-legal gambling dens. As they stood on the curb, Harold smoking a cigarette he bummed off a friendly bartender, he wondered if Wen might be a kindred sprit. Someone to grab a drink and commiserate with. Harold asked Wen if he wanted to hit a nearby bar he knew served cheap beers and didn’t get too busy on the weeknights.

Wen responded with an offer to bring him to a gambling den on Mulberry Street.

Harold was nervous from the get. He’d heard about the spots in Chinatown, and he was curious about them. Without someone to show him the way, he had no idea how to find them. But he didn’t know the customs. He figured language would be an issue. It was a very different, intimidating universe.

At that moment all he wanted was a beer. To quit while he was ahead, or at least not any further down, and for a gambler that was a major personal victory.

But Wen had the kind of easy smile and warm personality that made you want to say yes when he asked you for something. He insisted the place on Mulberry Street had good food and friendly dealers. The language barrier wouldn’t be an issue. Anyway, the regular spots in the West Village were getting too expensive, too full of young kids who watched the World Series of Poker on ESPN and suddenly decided they were experts.

Plus, they had beer on Mulberry Street.

Why not, Harold thought.

Maybe this was the moment his luck would finally turn.

Wen was sitting at the bar, nursing an amber beer, watching the Yankees game on the television mounted in the corner. Harold sat down next to him.

The pretty bartender in the cowboy hat didn’t wait for him to order, just filled a pint glass with the cheapest beer they had and placed it onto a coaster in front of him. Harold dug a couple of singles out of his pocket and placed them on the bar.

Wen looked at Harold’s face and said, “Jeez, man, what happened to you?”

“You did.”

“What do you mean?”

“Why did you bring me to Happy Dumpling?” Harold asked. “That night we first hung out. Why did you bring me there?”

Wen exhaled. Undid and redid his ponytail. It didn’t take a gambler to see it was a tell. After a few moments Wen said, “C’mon, man. I was just looking to help a fellow player out. You looked like you were still up for some action.”

Harold took a sip of his beer. “You said you worked for Mr. Mo.”

“I did.”

“When?”

“Before.”

“How long did you have to do it for?”

Wen pursed his lips, his words taking on a tone of aggravation. “One day he told me I was done. He sent me home.”

Harold twisted the stool around until he was looking at Wen. “Why did you bring me there?”

“Look, man, what happened happened,” Wen said. “You should have kept yourself in check. You didn’t. I told you to be careful. But I’ve been thinking about what you said. About…”

Wen arched his back, looked around the bar. The bartender was down at the other end. No one was sitting close. He leaned in to Harold’s ear. “I’ve been thinking of what you said. You’re getting pretty used to the routine now. Mr. Mo is comfortable with you. Maybe we can work together. Give something a try.”

“Something what?”

Wen smiled. “You know how much money goes through that place?”

“You mean knock him off?” Harold asked. “You told me he was dangerous.”

“Where did you say your wife and daughter moved to?” Wen asked.

“Iowa.”

“One big score. You up and leave to Iowa. Get closer to them. Never come back to this nightmare town again. I’m not saying we have to do it right now, but keep your eyes open. If you see there’s something we can exploit, let’s sit down and have a conversation about it, you know?”

Harold thought about his daughter and the ache in his chest.

Wen held up his pint glass and smiled. Harold picked up his own glass and clinked it against Wen’s.

“Partners,” Wen said.

“Sure,” Harold said.

Finally he saw his way out.

Harold wasn’t sure if it was Wen’s plan all along to get him into position and plant the seeds of a heist. Maybe he came up with the plan on the spot, to derail Harold’s train of thought.

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’d 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 with his 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 aboveground 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 emailed it to him. He hadn’t checked his email 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 takeout container inside. His heart racing, head spinning, so pleased to almost be done.

The takeout 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 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.